Stories 


American  Authors 


III 


THE    SPIDEITS  EYE. 

By  FITZ  JAMES  O'BRIEN. 

A  STORY  OF  THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

By  FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT. 

TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

By  GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 

POOR  OGLA-MOGA. 

By  DAVID  B.  LLOYD. 

A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

By  CELIA  THAXTER. 

VENETIAN  GLASS. 

By  BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 


^ 

University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
THE  HEARST  CORPORATION 


Hearst  Memorial  Library 

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Drawer  No inventory  No.  j%^7  4  7 

"NOT  tO  BE  REMOVED  FROM  LIBRARY 

WITHOUT  PROPER  AUTHORITY." 

PROPERTY  OF  HEARST  CORP. 


Stories  by  American  Authors, 
in. 


*#*  The  Stories  in  this  vohime  are  pro 
tected  by  copyright,  and  are  printed  here 
by  the  authority  of  the  authors  or  their 
represen  ta  tives. 


Stories  by 

American  Authors 

in. 


THE    SPIDER'S    EYE. 

By  FITZ  JAMES  O'BRIEN. 

A    STORY    OF    THE    LATIN    QUARTER. 

By  FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT. 

TWO     PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

By  GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 

POOR    OGLA-MOGA. 

By  DAVID  D.  LLOYD. 

A     MEMORABLE     MURDER. 

By  CELIA  THAXTER. 

VENETIAN    GLASS. 

By  BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1884 


COPYRIGHT,  1884,  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 


THE  SPIDER'S  EYE. 

BY  FITZ  JAMES  O'BRIEN. 


THERE  are  whispering  galleries,  where,  if  the 
ear  is  placed  in  a  certain  position,  it  takes  in 
the  sound  of  the  lowest  whisper  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room.  But,  to  produce  this  effect,  the 
architecture  of  the  apartment  must  be  of  a  peculiar 
nature,  and,  especially,  the  rules  and  laws  of  sound 
must  be  observed. 

I  have  often  thought  that,  were  one  wise  enough, 
there  might  be  found,  in  every  room,  a  centre  to 
which  all  sound  must  converge.  Nay,  that  per 
haps  such  a  focus  had  already  been  discovered  by 
some  one  who  has  wished  to  appear  wiser  than  his 
neighbors,  who  has  made  use  of  some  hitherto  un 
known  scientific  fact,  and  has  on  any  one  occasion, 
or  on  many  occasions,  thus  made  himself  the  centre 
of  information. 

These  ideas  occurred  to  my  mind  when  I  arrived 
the  other  night  early  at  the  theatre,  and  was  for  a 

»*«  Putnam's  Magazine^  July,  1856. 


6  THE   SPIDER'S  EYE. 

time,  literally,  the  only  occupant  of  the  house.  I 
fell  to  marvelling  at  the  skill  of  the  architect  who 
has  been  so  successful  in  the  acoustic  arrangements 
of  this  theatre.  Not  a  sound,  so  it  is  said,  is  lost 
from  the  stage  upon  any  part  of  the  house.  The 
lowest  sob  of  a  dying  heroine,  in  her  very  last 
agony,  is  heard  as  plainly  by  the  occupant  of  the 
back  seat  of  the  amphitheatre,  as  are  the  thunder 
ing  denunciations  of  the  tragic  actor  in  the  wildest 
of  gladiatorial  scenes. 

I  wondered  if  this  were  one  of  those  rules  that 
worked  both  ways  ;  if  the  stage  performer,  in  a 
moment  of  silent  by-play,  could  hear  the  senti 
mental  whisper  of  the  belle  in  the  box  opposite,  as 
well  as  the  noisy  applause  of  the  claqueur  in  the 
front  seat.  If  so,  the  audience  might  become,  to 
him,  the  peopled  stage,  filled  with  the  varied  and 
incongruous  characters. 

Then  if  art  can  produce  such  effects  upon  what 
we  call  an  ethereal  substance — if  the  waves  of  air 
can  be  compelled  to  carry  their  message  only  in 
the  directions  in  which  it  is  taught  to  go — what  in 
fluence  would  such  power  have  on  more  spiritual 
media  ?  In  other  worlds,  where  it  is  not  necessary 
for  thoughts  to  express  themselves  in  words,  but 
where  some  more  subtle  power  than  that  of  air 
conveys  ideas  from  one  being  to  another,  it  is  pos 
sible  that  an  inquiring  being, might  place  himself 
at  some  central  point  where  he  might  gather  in  all 
the  information  that  is  afloat  in  such  a  spiritual 
existence. 


THE   SPIDERS  EYE.  ^ 

Full  of  these  thoughts,  and  my  head,  perhaps,  a 
little  bewildered  by  them,  I  passed  unobserved 
into  the  orchestra,  and  ensconced  myself  in  a  little 
niche  under  the  music-desk  of  the  leader.  I  was 
surprised  to  find  myself  in  a  little  cavity,  from 
which  there  were  loop-holes  of  observation  into 
every  part  of  the  house,  while  there  was  a  front 
view  of  the  stage  when  the  curtain  should  be 
raised.  Seduced  by  the  comfort  of  this  little  nook, 
and  my  speculations  not  being  of  the  liveliest  nat 
ure,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  I  fell  into  a 
gentle  sleep. 

I  was  aroused  presently  by  the  baton  of  the 
leader,  struck  with  some  force  upon  the  desk  over 
my  head.  I  was  aware,  at  the  same  time,  of  a 
whispering  all  around  my  ears,  and  an  incessant 
noise,  like  that  of  aspen  leaves  in  a  summer  breeze, 
which,  in  spite  of  its  softness  and  delicacy,  over 
powered  the  sound  of  the  loud  orchestra.  When  I 
was  able  to  recover  myself,  I  began  to  find  that  I  had 
indeed  placed  myself  in  the  centre  of  the  house  ; 
not  in  the  centre  of  sound,  but,  if  I  may  so  express 
myself,  of  sensation.  I  was  not  listening  to  the 
conversations,  but  suddenly  found  myself  the  con 
fidant  of  the  thoughts  of  all  the  occupants  of  this 
well-filled  house.  I  was  lost  in  the  multiplicity  of 
ideas  that  were  poured  in  upon  me,  and  endeav 
ored  to  concentrate  myself  upon  one  series  of 
thoughts.  I  looked  through  my  loop-holes,  and 
presently  selected  one  group  towards  which  I  might 
direct  the  opera-glass  of  my  mental  observation. 


8  THE   SPIDER'S  EYE. 

There  sat  the  five  Misses  Seymour.  We  had 
always  distinguished  them  as  the  tall  one,  the 
light-haired  one,  the  one  who  painted  in  oils,  the 
one  who  had  been  south,  and  the  little  one  whom 
nobody  knew  anything  about.  This  individuality 
had  been  our  only  guide  after  having  engaged  Miss 
Seymour  for  a  dance,  and  this  was  sufficient.  The 
one  who  painted  in  oils  always  refused  to  dance  ; 
the  one  who  had  been  south  spoke  with  an  accent, 
and  said  "  chick* V  and  "  fush^'  if  the  conversation 
turned  upon  the  bill  of  fare  ;  and  the  others  were 
distinguished  by  their  personal  appearance. 

Now  I  felt  anxious  to  discover  more  certainly 
which  was  which.  I  found,  presently,  that  instead 
of  contenting  myself  with  the  superficial  layer  of 
thought  over  my  mind,  created  by  the  circum 
stances  in  which  they  were  placed,  I  was  penetrat 
ing  into  what  they  really  were.  A  few  minutes 
showed  me  what  had  been  their  occupations  for  the 
day,  and  what  were  their  plans  for  the  next.  I 
saw,  at  once,  all  their  regrets  and  ambitions. 

It  had  been  the  day  of  Mrs.  Jay's  famous  mat- 
in£e.  I  had  not  been  at  the  reception,  but  Frank 
Leslie  had  told  me  all  about  it,  and  that  all  the 
Seymours  were  there  ;  and  about  Miss  Seymour's 
fainting.  I  knew  Frank  was  in  love  with  one  of 
the  Miss  Seymours,  but  I  never  had  found  out 
which,  and  I  was  not  sure  that  Frank  himself  knew. 

How  suddenly  did  these  five  characters,  whom 
before  I  had  found  it  difficult  to  distinguish,  stand 
out  now  with  differing  features.  I  saw  Aurelia — • 


THE    SPIDER'S  EYE.  9 

that  was  the  tall  one — enter  the  drawing-room 
very  stately  in  her  beauty.  No  wonder  that  every 
one  had  turned  round  to  look  at  her  ;  to  admire 
her  first,  and  then  criticise  her,  because  she  seemed 
so  cold  and  statue-like.  But  to-night  she  was 
going  over  the  whole  scene  in  her  thoughts.  I 
heard  the  throbbing  of  her  heart  as  in  memory  she 
was  bringing  back  the  morning's  events.  She  had 
refused  to  dance,  because  she  was  sure  she  should 
not  have  the  strength  to  go  through  a  polka.  She 
had  preferred  to  sink  into  a  seat  by  the  conserva 
tory,  and  upheld  by  the  excitement  of  the  music  to 
await  the  meeting. 

Oh  !  in  this  everyday  world,  where  its  repeated 
succession  of  events  is  gone  through  with  in  com 
posure,  how  easy  it  is  to  control  the  wildest  pas 
sions.  A  conventional  smile  and  a  stiff  bow  are 
the  draperies  that  veil  the  intensest  unspoken  emo 
tions.  It  was  under  this  disguise  that  Miss  Sey 
mour  was  to  greet  Gerald  Lawson.  He  went  to 
Canton  three  years  ago,  and  before  he  went  she 
had  promised  to  marry  him.  She  promised  one 
gay  evening  after  "the  German."  She  had  been 
carried  away  by  the  moment.  Ever  since,  all 
through  the  three  years,  she  had  been  regretting  it. 
It  was  a  secret  engagement.  The  untold  feeling 
that  had  prompted  it  had  never  been  aired,  and 
died  very  soon  for  want  of  earth  and  light.  To 
cold  indifference  for  the  man  to  whom  she  had 
promised  herself,  had  succeeded  an  absolute  aver 
sion.  What  was  worse,  she  loved  another  person. 


io  THE    SPIDER'S  EYE. 

Aurelia  Seymour  loved  Frank  !  This  very  morn 
ing  the  news  had  reached  her  that  the  Kumshan 
was  in  from  Canton.  The  passengers  had  arrived 
last  night  ;  she  was  to  meet  Gerald  at  Mrs.  Jay's 
this  morning. 

Frank  Leslie  seated  himself  by  her.  She  was  in 
the  midst  of  a  calm,  cool  conversation  with  him, 
when  she  saw  a  little  commotion  in  the  other  cor 
ner  of  the  room.  Every  one  was  greeting  Mr. 
Lawson  on  his  arriving  home.  He  is  making  his 
way  through  the  crowd  ;  he  comes  to  her,  he 
bows  ;  Aurelia  smiles. 

But  this  was  not  all.  He  asked  her  if  she  would 
come  into  the  conservatory.  She  had  accompanied 
him  there.  Half  hid  by  the  branches  of  a  camellia- 
tree  all  covered  with  white  blossoms,  she  had  said 
coldly,  "  Gerald,  I  cannot  marry  you."  But  Ger 
ald  had  not  received  the  word  so  coolly.  He  had 
burst  out  into  passion.  First  he  had  exclaimed  in 
wonder,  next  he  could  not  believe  her. 

"Would  she  treat  him  so  ungenerously?  Was 
she  a  heartless  flirt,  a  mere  coquette  ?" 

He  told  over  his  love  that  had  been  growing 
warmer  all  these  three  years  ;  of  his  ambition  that 
was  to  be  crowned  by  her  approval  ;  of  his  lately 
gained  wealth,  valued  only  for  her  sake.  Passion 
ate  words  they  were,  and  full  of  intense  feeling  ; 
but  hidden  by  the  camellia,  restrained  and  kept 
under  from  fear  of  observers.  They  were  fre 
quently  interrupted,  too. 

"  Thank  you — ninety-nine  days  ;  very  quick  pas- 


THE    SPIDER'S  EYE.  n 

sage.  Yes,  I  go  back  next  week;  no,  I  stay  at 
home,"  were,  with  other  sentences,  thrown  in,  as 
answers  to  the  different  questions  of  those  who  did 
not  know  what  they  were  interrupting. 

But,  at  last,  Aurelia  broke  away.  Broke  away  ! 
No  ;  she  accepted  Middleton's  proposal  to  go  into 
the  coffee-room,  and  left  Gerald  beneath  the 
camellia. 

As  I  watched  her  from  my  loop-holes  I  could  tell 
that  Aurelia  was  going  over  all  this  scene  in  her 
mind.  While  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  stage, 
she  recalled  every  word  and  gesture  of  Gerald's. 
Yet,  his  reproaches,  his  just  complaints,  hardly 
weighed  upon  her  now.  She  was  looking  on  the 
vacant  seat  beside  her,  and  wondering  when  Frank 
would  come  to  take  it. 

But  "  Lilly,"  the  light-haired  one,  her  thoughts 
were  rushing  back  to  the  wild,  gay  polkas  of  the 
morning.  Now  by  Aurelia's  side,  now  away 
again  ;  she  had  danced  continually  till  the  last  mo 
ment,  and  when  they  came  to  tell  her  the  carriage 
was  ready,  and  she  must  come  away,  she  had 
fainted. 

It  was  as  she  was  going  up  stairs  into  the  draw 
ing-room,  just  before  she  and  her  sisters  made 
their  grand  entree,  that  Lilly  had  heard  that 
"  Cousin  Joe"  had  not  come  home  in  the  vessel 
with  Gerald  Lawson.  He  had  gone  to  Europe  by 
the  overland  route,  and  wild,  mad  fellow  that  he 
was,  had  determined  to  join  the  Russian  troops  in 
the  Crimea. 


12  THE   SPIDER'S  EYE. 

"  And  be  shot  there  for  his  pains,"  Frank  Leslie 
added  carelessly. 

Cousin  Joe  hadn't  come  home  !  He  didn't  care 
to  come  home  !  He  was  going  to  be  shot  ! 

She  could  think  of  nothing  else.  She  could  not 
keep  still  ;  she  could  not  talk  placidly  like  the 
rest  ;  she  must  dance,  and  dance  wildly  and  pas 
sionately. 

But  a  moment  of  reaction  came.  When  the  last 
strain  of  music  had  died  away,  all  power  of  self- 
control  had  died  away,  too.  No  wonder  that  she 
had  fainted  !  More  wonder  that  she  could  recover 
herself  ;  could  resist  her  mother's  entreaties,  after 
all  that  dancing,  to  spare  herself  and  stay  from  the 
opera. 

Here  she  was,  outwardly  lively  and  radiant,  chat 
ting  with  Lieutenant  Preston,  inwardly  chafed  at 
all  this  constraint,  and  wondering  how  it  was 
Cousin  Joe  could  stay  so  long  away. 

By  her  side  sat  Annette.  It  was  the  report  that 
she  had  been  sent  south  last  winter  to  break  up  a 
desperate  flirtation  she  was  carrying  on.  However 
it  was,  I  had  always  fancied  Annette  more  than 
either  of  the  other  sisters.  She  had  apparently  less 
of  our  northern  reserve,  whether  for  good  or  evil, 
than  the  rest.  She  said  just  what  she  was  think 
ing  ;  danced  when  she  liked  ;  was  insolent  when 
she  pleased. 

To-night  she  seemed  to  me  fretful.  She  was 
angry  with  Lilly  for  talking  with  Lieutenant.  Pres 
ton  ;  and,  indeed,  I  must  not,  in  honor,  reveal  all  I 


THE   SPIDER'S  EYE.  13 

read  in  Annette's  mind.  If  I  found  there  her  opin 
ion  of  me  ;  if,  on  the  whole,  it  lowered  my  opinion 
of  myself,  I  must  take  refuge  in  the  old  proverb, 
"  Eavesdroppers  never  hear  any  good  of  them 
selves." 

But  there  was  Angelina  ;  she  was  the  one  who 
"  painted  in  oils,"  and  she  attracted  me  more  than 
any  of  the  others.  There  was  about  her  an  at 
mosphere  of  pleasure,  within  her  an  expression  of 
delight,  that  accounted  for  the  really  sunny  gleam 
upon  her  face.  Something  had  made  all  the 
day  happy  for  her.  In  the  morning  she  had 
passed  nearly  all  the  time  in  Mrs.  Jay's  front 
drawing-room.  The  fine  masterpieces  of  art, 
brought  from  Europe,  make  this  apartment  a  true 
picture-gallery.  But  Angelina's  pleasure,  artist 
though  she  was,  was  not  taken  from  the  figures 
upon  the  walls.  She  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  ;  she  lingered  awhile  in  one  of  the  deep 
fauteuils  ;  she  paused  before  the  paintings  with 
Frank  Leslie  by  her  side.  As  she  turned,  at  the 
theatre,  now  and  then  to  the  vacant  seat  behind 
her,  next  Aurelia's,  her  anticipation  was  not  em 
bittered  by  anxiety  ;  she  knew  he  would  come  in 
time.  Oh,  Frank  !  you  did  not  tell  me  all  that 
took  place  at  Mrs.  Jay's  ! 

But,  from  all  these  observations,  my  thoughts 
were  turned  back  to  the  stage  by  the  influence  of 
the  little  Sophie  Seymour.  She — about  whom  we 
knew  nothing — she  was  the  only  one  of  the  party 
entirely  absorbed  in  the  opera.  Her  eyes  fixed 


14  THE    SPIDER'S  EYE. 

upon  the  stage  ;  her  heart  wrapt  up  in  the  intense 
story  that  was  being  enacted  ;  her  musical  soul 
throbbing  with  the  glorious  chords  that  swelled 
out  ;  her  whole  being  reflected  the  opera. 

So  I  turned  me  to  the  stage.  My  eyes  fell  first 
upon  the  substitute  that  the  illness  of  Mademoiselle 

required  for  the  night.  Just  now  she  was 

standing  on  one  side,  and  as  she  drew  her  white 
glove  closer,  her  thoughts  were  going  back  to  the 
scenes  of  the  day. 

Oh  !  what  a  little  room  she  lived  in  !  She  was 
sitting  in  it  when  the  message  came  from  the 
manager  to  summon  her  to  sing  to-night  !  Her 
brother  Frank  was  copying  some  music  by  her 
side  ;  and  now  she  is  smiling  at  the  recollection  of 
the  conversation  that  had  followed  upon  her  ac 
cepting  the  manager's  unexpected  proposal. 

She  had  hastened  to  get  out  her  last  concert 
dress.  It  was  new  once — but  oh  !  would  it  answer 
now  for  the  opera  ? 

Those  very  white  kid  gloves  !  They  had  cost 
her  her  dinner. 

"  Must  I  have  new  ones,  Franz  ?"  she  had  asked. 
"  If  there  were  only  time  to  have  an  old  pair 
cleaned — if,  indeed,  I  have  any  left  worth  clean 
ing  !" 

"Never  mind,"  answered  Franz,  "it  is  worth 
twenty  dinners  to  have  you  hear  the  opera.  I  have 
longed  so  every  night  to  have  you  there,  and  to 
have  you  on  the  stage  !  my  highest  wishes  are 
granted.  Oh  !  Marie,  when  you  make  a  great 


THE    SPIDER'S  JZYE.  15 

point,  I  shall  have  to  take  my  flute  from  my  mouth 
and  cry  bravo  !" 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  of  the  singing.  It  takes  away 
my  breath  to  think  of  myself  upon  the  stage  ! 
How  I  waste  my  time  over  dress  and  gloves  !  I 
must  practice  ;  I  must  be  ready  for  the  rehear 
sal." 

"  My  poor  Marie  !  To-day,  of  all  days,  to  go 
without  dinner." 

"  Don't  think  of  it  !  When  the  manager  '  pays 
up,'  oh,  then,  Franz  !  we'll  have  dinners.  Only 
part  of  the  money  must  go  to  a  new  concert  dress. 
When  my  last  was  hew,  I  overheard,  as  I  left  the 
stage,  a  young  girl  saying,  to  her  sister,  I  suppose, 
'  What  an  elegant  dress  ! '  I  wanted  to  stop  and 
ask  her  if  she  thought  it  were  worth  going  without 
meat  for  a  month." 

And  as  Marie  recalled  these  words  to-night  to 
her  mind,  I  saw  her  look  up  and  smile  as  she  glanced 
over  the  house,  and  contrasted  the  showy  dress  she 
wore  with  the  poor  home  she  had  left  behind. 

What  a  poor  home  it  was,  indeed  !  What  a  con 
trast  did  the  gay  dress  she  arranged  for  the  even 
ing  make  with  her  room's  poor  adorning.  The 
dress  she  thrust  quickly  away,  and  had  devoted 
herself  to  the  study  of  the  music  for  evening. 
With  her  brother's  assistance,  she  had  prepared 
herself  for  the  rehearsal,  and  had  gone  there  with 
him. 

The  rehearsal  was  more  alarming  to  her  than  the 
thought  of  the  evening  performance.  There  were 


1 6  THE    SPIDER'S  EYE. 

the  conductor's  criticising  eyes  glaring  at  her  ;  the 
unsympathizing  glances  of  some  of  her  stage  com 
panions — though  many  of  them  had  come  to  her 
with  words  of  kindly  encouragement  ;  there  was 
the  silent,  untenanted  expanse  of  the  theatre  before 
her — none  of  the  excitement  of  stage  scenery,  or 
the  brilliancy  of  light  and  tinsel  ;  and  she  must 
force  herself  to  think  of  her  part,  as  a  technical 
study  of  music,  all  the  time  she  felt  she  was  un 
dergoing  a  severe  criticism  from  Mademoiselle 
's  friends,  who  were  comparing  the  new 
comer's  voice  with  that  of  their  own  ally. 

Rut  her  thoughts  were  not  sad.  There  was  in 
her  a  gayety  and  strength  of  spirit  that  bore  her  up. 
The  brilliant  scene  gave  her  an  excitement  that 
helped  her  to  bear  the  thought  of  her  everyday 
trials.  It  had  been  hard  to  work  all  day,  preparing 
for  the  evening — hard  for  the  mind  and  body — and 
she  had  lately  lived  on  poor  fare,  and  wanted  the 
exercise  upon  which  her  physical  constitution 
should  support  itself.  At  once  these  troubles 
were  forgotten.  Now  was  to  come  the  duet  with 
the  prima  donna. 

No  timidity  restrained  her  now.  She  felt,  at  the 
moment,  that  her  own  voice  was  cf  worth  only  as 
it  harmonized  with  the  leading  one.  She  forgot 
herself  when  she  thought  of  that  wonderful  voice, 
when  once  she  found  her  own  mingled  in  its  won 
derful  tones.  Now  she  was  supported  by  it 
through  the  whole  piece  ;  her  own  was  subdued  by 
it,  and  at  last  she  felt  herself  inspired  by  it  ;  it  was 


THE   SPIDER'S  EYE.  17 

no  longer  herself  singing  ;  she  was  carried  away 
by  the  power  of  another,  and  lifted  above  herself. 

All  applauded  the  magnificent  music  and  har 
mony  ;  the  bravo  of  Franz  was  for  Marie  alone. 

At  this  time  my  interest  was  absorbed  in  my  ob 
servation  of  the  prima  donna.  I  had  perceived  at 
first  how  indifferently  she  had  entered  upon  the 
spirit  of  the  music.  Her  companion  had  filled  her 
mind  with  the  meaning  of  its  composer,  and  was 
striving  to  infuse  into  herself  the  interpretation  that 
the  prima  donna  would  give  to  its  glorious  strains. 

But  the  soul  of  the  prima  donna  was  away.  It 
was  in  a  heavily-curtained  room,  where  there  were 
luxury  and  elegance.  Here  she  had  all  day  been 
watching  by  the  bedside  of  her  sick  child.  She 
had  collected  round  it  everything  that  money 
could  bring  to  soothe  its  sufferings.  There  were 
flowers  in  the  greatest  profusion  ;  these  were 
trophies  of  her  last  night's  success  ;  and  on  the 
table  by  the  bedside  she  had  heaped  up  her  brill 
iant,  gorgeous  jewels,  for  their  varied  and  glow 
ing  colors  had  served  to  amuse  the  child  for  a  few 
minutes.  She  had  sung  to  him  music,  that  crowds 
would  have  collected  to  hear,  had  they  been  allow 
ed.  Only  to  soothe  him,  all  the  golden  tones  of 
her  voice  had  poured  out — now  dropping  in  thrill 
ing,  sad  melody,  now  in  glad,  happy,  childish 
strains. 

Nothing  through  the  day  could  put  to  rest  that 
one  appeal,  which  now  was  echoing  in  her  ears  : 
"  Will  nothing  cool  my  throat  ! — my  head  burns  ! 


1 8  THE   SPIDER'S  EYE. 

— only  a  few  drops  of  water  !"  Over  all  the  tones 
of  the  orchestra  these  words  sounded  and  thrilled 
so  in  her  ears,  that  only  mechanically  could  the 
prima  donna  repeat  the  tones  that  were  thrilling 
all  the  hearts  to  which  they  came. 

At  last  the  power  of  her  own  voice  conquered  her 
self,  too.  In  the  closing  cadences — in  those  chords, 
triumphant  and  faith-bringing — for  the  moment 
her  own  sorrows  melted  •  away,  and  the  thought 
of  herself  was  lost  in  the  inspiration  of  the  grand, 
majestic  intonations  to  which  she  was  giving  ut 
terance.  She  was  no  longer  a  suffering  woman  ; 
but  her  soul  and  her  voice  were  sounding  beneath 
the  touch  of  a  great  master-spirit,  and  giving  out  a 
glowing  music,  compelled  by  its  master-power. 

What  an  enthusiasm  !  what  an  excitement !  As 
with  the  opera-singer  on  the 'stage,  so  with  all  the 
audience  ;  all  separate  joy  and  grief,  all  individual 
passions  were  swallowed  up,  and  carried  away  by 
this  all-absorbing  inspiration,  and  lost  in  its 
mighty  whirl. 

For  me,  now,  there  was  but  one  character  to  fol 
low.  How  grandly  the  stage-heroine  went  through 
her  part  !  As  if  to  crush  all  other  emotion,  she 
flung  herself  into  the  character  she  was  portraying, 
and  went  through  it  wildly  and  passionately. 

She  overshadowed  her  little  rival — for  Marie  was 
her  rival,  according  to  the  plot  of  the  opera — now 
threatening,  now  protecting  her,  as  she  was  led  on 
by  the  spirit  of  the  play.  Marie  shrunk  before 
her,  or  was  inspired  by  her  ;  and  her  delicate,  en- 


THE   SPIDER'S  EYE.  19 

treating  figure  helped  the  pathos  of  her  voice. 
Marie,  by  this  time,  had  utterly  lost  herself  in  her 
admiration  of  the  great  genius  who  was  so  impress 
ing  her.  She  gave  out  her  own  voice  as  an  offer 
ing  to  this  great  power.  For  its  sake  she  would 
have  found  it  impossible  to  make  any  mistake  in 
her  own  singing,  or  do  anything  with  her  own 
voice,  but  just  place  it  at  the  service  of  her  com 
panion,  as  a  foil  to  her  grand  and  glorious  one. 

When  in  the  play  the  heroine  gave  up — as  she  does 
in  the  play — her  own  life  for  the  sake  of  her  rival, 
the  act  became  more  magnanimous  and  wondrous 
as  being  performed  for  this  little  delicate  Marie, 
who  shrank  from  so  great  a  sacrifice. 

The  prima  donna  gained  all  the  applause.  In 
deed,  it  was  right — for  it  was  her  power  that  had 
called  out  all  that  was  great  in  her  delicate  rival. 
It  was  she  who  had  inspired  her,  and  made  her 
forget  herself  and  everything  but  the  notes  she 
must  give  out,  true  and  pure. 

They  were  both  called  before  the  stage  after  the 
grand  closing  scene  ;  or  rather  the  prima  donna 
drew  forward  the  retiring  Marie.  Shouts  and  peals 
of  enthusiasm  greeted  the  queen  of  song.  But  her 
moment  of  exaltation  had  passed  away.  Over  and 
over  again  she  was  repeating  to  herself,  "  Will 
they  never  let  me  go  home  ?  Perhaps  he  is  dying 
now — he  wants  me — I  am  too  late  !" 

She  was  at  the  summit  of  her  greatness  ;  but 
oh  !  it  was  painful  to  see  her  there — to  see  how 
she  would  have  hushed  all  those  wild,  enthusiastic 


20  THE   SPIDER'S  EY£. 

shouts  for  the  sake  of  one  fresh  childish  tone  ;  how 
she  would  have  exchanged  all  those  bursts  of  pas 
sion  to  make  sure  of  a  healthy  throb  in  that  child's 
pulse.  All  this  enthusiasm  was  not  new  to  her. 
It  was  part  of  her  existence.  It  was  a  restraint 
upon  her  now,  but  she  could  not  have  done  with 
out  it.  It  was  the  excitement  which  would  serve 
to  sustain  her  through  another  night  of  watching. 

Marie,  too,  was  giving  her  meed  of  praise,  as 
she  followed  her  across  the  stage.  She  did  not 
think  of  taking  to  herself  one  shout  of  the  enthu 
siasm,  any  more  than  she  would  have  thought  of 
appropriating  one  flower  from  the  bouquets  which 
were  showered  before  her.  There  was,  indeed, 
one  share  of  the  plaudits  which  belonged  to  her 
entirely.  This  came  from  Franz — for  I  recognized 
him  by  his  unruly  stamping,  and  unrestrained  ap 
plause.  His  thoughts  were  only  for  Marie  ;  he 
was  filled  with  pride  at  the  manner  in  which  she 
bore  herself — at  her  simple  carriage,  and  modest 
demeanor.  His  praise  was  all  for  Marie.  The 
famous  opera-singer,  whom  he  had  heard  night 
after  night,  was  forgotten,  in  his  pride  for  his  little 
sister. 

I  sank  back  into  my  niche.  Varied  figures  float 
ed  before  me,  and  bewildered  me. 

I  have  often  looked  at  spiders  with  deep  interest. 
It  is  said  that  their  eyes  are  made  up  of  many  faces. 
What  a  bewildering  world,  then,  is  presented  to 
their  view  !  It  is  no  wonder  that,  as  I  have  seen 
them,  they  have  appeared  so  irresolute  in  their 


THE   SPIDER'S  EYE.  21 

motions,  darting  here  and  there.  A  world  of  so 
many  faces  stand  around  the  spider,  towards  which 
shall  he  turn  his  attention  ?  He  lives,  as  it  were, 
in  the  middle  of  a  kaleidoscope,  where  many  fig 
ures  are  repeated,  and  form  one  great  figure,  and 
each  separate  section  is  like  its  neighbor.  Which 
of  these  varied  yet  too  similar  pictures  shall  he 
choose  ? 

At  least  this  is  my  idea  of  the  sensations  of  a 
spider  ;  but  I  am  not  enough  of  a  naturalist  to 
say  that  it  is  correct.  How  is  it  ?  When  a  fly 
enters  that  web,  which  is  divided  into  a  symmetry 
similar  to  that  of  the  faces  of  a  spider's  eye,  does 
mine  host,  the  spider,  see  twenty-five  thousand 
similar  flies  approaching,  his  organ  of  vision  stand 
ing  as  the  centre  ?  What  a  cosmorama  there  is 
before  him  !  What  a  luxurious  repast  might  not 
his  imagination  offer  him,  if  his  memory  did  not 
recall  the  plain  truth  that  dull  reality  has  so  often 
disclosed  to  him  !  We  cannot  wonder  that  the 
spider  should  lead,  apparently,  so  solitary  a  life, 
since  his  eyes  have  the  power  of  producing  a 
whole  ball-room  from  the  form  of  one  lady  visitor. 
Not  one,  but  twenty-five  thousand  Robert  Bruces 
inspired  the  Scottish  spider  to  that  homely  instance 
of  perseverance,  which  served  for  an  example  for  a 
king.  As  he  hangs  his  drapery  from  one  cornice  to 
another,  the  prismatic  scenes  that  come  before  him 
serve  to  lengthen  that  life  which  might  seem  to  be 
cut  off  before  its  time.  It  is  not  one,  but  twenty- 
five  thousand  brooms  which  advance  to  destroy  his 


22  7Y7.fi:    SPIDERS  EYE. 

airy  home  ;  to  invade  his  household  gods,  and 
bring  to  the  ground  that  row  of  bluebottles  which 
his  magnifying  power  of  vision  has  transformed 
from  one  to  twenty-five  thousand  !  nay,  more,  per 
haps  ! 

Out  in  the  air,  as  he  swings  his  delicate  cordage 
from  one  tree  to  another,  he  does  not  need  to  wear 
a  gorgeous  plumage  ;  this  old  dusty  coat  and  un 
comely  figure,  that  make  a  child  shrink  and  cry 
out,  these  may  well  be  forgotten  by  him  who  looks 
into  life  through  prismatic  glasses.  Every  drop 
of  rain  wears  for  him  its  Iris  drapery  ;  the  dew  on 
the  flowers  becomes  a  jewelled  circlet  ;  and  the  daz 
zling  pictures  brought  by  the  sunbeams  outshine 
and  transform  for  him  his  own  dusky  garment. 

I  thought  of  my  friend,  the  spider,  as  into  my 
web  of  thought  came  such  numerous  images. 
They  were  not  alike  in  form — and  so  were  more 
distracting.  More  than  I  can  mention  or  number 
had  visited  me  there  ;  had  excited  my  interest  for 
a  moment,  and  been  crowded  out  by  another  new 
image.  Yes,  it  was  like  looking  into  a  kaleido 
scope  where  there  were  infinite  repetitions.  In  all 
were  the  same  master-colors  and  forms.  All  were 
swayed  by  passions  that  made  an  under-current 
beneath  a  great  outward  calm.  All  were  wearing 
an  outward  form  that  strove  each  to  resemble  the 
other  ;  not  to  appear  strange  or  odd.  So  they  flit 
ted  before  me,  coming  into  shape,  and  departing 
from  it  as  they  came  within  and  left  my  reach. 

I  only  roused  myself  to  see  the  various  charac- 


THE   SPIDER'S  EYE.  23 

ters,  that  had  presented  themselves  on  the  stage  of 
my  mind,  return  again  into  their  everyday  cos 
tumes.  They  passed  out  of  the  focus  of  my  obser 
vation  into  their  several  forms  in  which  they  walk 
through  common  life.  Putting  on  their  opera- 
cloaks,  their  paletots,  they  put  on,  for  me,  that 
mark  that  hides  the  inner  life,  and  the  veil  that 
conceals  all  hidden  passions. 

It  is  said  that  there  is,  no  longer,  romance  in 
real  life.  But  the  truth  is  that  we  live  the  ro 
mance  that  former  ages  told  and  sang.  The  magic 
carpet  of  the  Arabian  tales,  the  mirror  that 
brought  to  view  most  distant  objects,  have  come 
out  of  poetry,  and  present  themselves  in  the 
prosaic  form  of  steam  locomotive  and  the  electric 
telegraph. 

Nowadays,  everybody  has  travelled  to  some  dis 
tant  land,  has  seen,  with  everybody's  eyes,  the 
charmed  isles  and  lotos  shores  that  used  to  be  only 
in  books.  In  this  lively,  changing  age  everybody 
is  living  his  own  romance.  And  this  is  why  the 
romance  of  story  grows  pale  and  is  thrown  aside. 
A  domestic  sketch  of  everyday  life,  of  outward 
calm  and  simplicity,  soothes  the  unrest  of  active 
life,  and  charms  more  than,  three  volumes  of  wild 
incident  that  cannot  equal  the  excitement  that 
every  reader  is  enacting  in  his  own  drama. 

There  were  as  many  romances  in  life  around  me, 
that  night,  as  there  were  persons  in  the  theatre.  I 
had  not  merely  learned  that  the  cold  Aurelia  was 
passionately  in  love,  that  the  gay  Lilly  was  broken- 


24  THE   SPIDER'S  EYE. 

hearted,  that  the  frank  Annette  was  silly,  and 
Angelina  and  Frank  engaged  before  it  was  out. 
Beside  all  this,  I  had  learned  the  trials  and  joys  of 
many  others  whom  I  know  only  in  this  way  ;  and 
I  left  the  theatre  the  last,  as  I  had  come  in  the  first. 

The  next  morning  I  returned  to  business  affairs 
again.  It  was  a  particularly  pressing  morning. 
The  steamer  was  in.  I  had  not  even  time  to  think  of 
my  last  night's  experiences.  Only  at  the  corner  of 
a  street  I  met  an  acquaintance,  whose  smiling  face 
amazed  me.  I  knew  that  all  last  evening  his  mind 
had  been  preoccupied  with  the  truly  critical  state  of 
his  affairs,  and  I  was  at  a  loss  how  to  greet  him. 
He  hurried  away  from  my  embarrassment.  I  had 
more  than  one  of  these  encounters  ;  but  it  was  not 
till  the  labors  of  the  day  were  over  that  I  understood 
how  my  knowledge  of  mankind  had  been  lately  in 
creased.  I  went,  in  the  evening,  to  a  small  party 
where  I  knew  I  should  meet  the  Seymours.  I  fell 
in  there  with  Aurelia  first.  She  was  as  cold  and  as 
stately  as  ever.  I  entered  into  conversation  with 
her,  feeling  that  I  could  touch  the  key-note  of  her 
life.  But  no  ;  she  was  as  chilling  to  me  as  ever  ; 
nothing  warmed  her — nothing  elicited  from  her 
the  slightest  spark.  Sometimes  she  looked  at  me 
a  little  wonderingly,  as  if  I  were  talking  in  some 
style  unusual  to  me  ;  as  if  my  remarks  were,  in  a 
manner,  impertinent  ;  but,  in  the  end,  I  left  her  to 
her  icy  coldness. 

As  for  Lilly,  she  appeared  to  the  world,  in  gen 
eral,  as  gay  as  ever.  I  fancied  I  detected  a  slight 


THE    SPIDER'S  EYE.  25 

listlessness  as  she  accompanied  her  partner  into 
the  dancing-room  for  the  sixth  polka.  It  was  no 
great  help  with  me  in  talking  to  Annette,  that  I 
knew  she  was  a  fool.  I  won  no  thanks  from  Frank 
or  Angelina  when  I  manoeuvred  that  they  should 
have  a  little  flirtation  in  the  library.  For  some 
reason  they  were  determined  that  their  engagement 
should  not  be  apparent,  and  I  was  reproached 
afterwards  by  Frank  for  my  clumsiness,  and  re 
ceived,  in  return,  no  confidences  to  make  up  for 
the  reproach. 

On  the  whole  I  passed  a  disagreeable  evening. 
I  had  a  feeling  all  the  time  that  I  was  in  the  pres 
ence  of  smothered  volcanoes,  and  a  consciousness 
that  I  had  the  advantage  of  the  rest  of  the  world  in 
knowing  all  its  secret  history.  This  became,  at 
last,  almost  insupportable. 

There  was  no  opera  this  night.  The  next  day  it 

was  announced  that  Mademoiselle would  take 

her  accustomed  place  in  the  performance.  I  went 
early  to  the  theatre,  and  found,  to  my  amazement, 
there  had  been  some  changes  made  in  the  orches 
tra  ;  the  prompter's  box  had  been  enlarged,  and 
my  newly-discovered  niche  had  been  rendered  in 
accessible  and  almost  entirely  filled  in  !  In  vain 
did  I  attempt  to  find  some  other  position  that 
might  correspond  to  it.  I  only  attracted  the  at 
tention  of  the  early  comers  to  the  theatre.  I  was 
obliged  to  return  to  my  old  position  of  an  outside 
observer  of  life,  and  see,  quite  unoccupied,  that 
centre  of  all  observation  which  I  had  enjoyed  my- 


26  THE   SPIDER'S  EYE. 

self  so  much  two  nights  before  ;  over  which  the 
leader  of  the  orchestra  was  unconsciously  waving 
his  baton. 

I  made  some  inquiries  for  Marie.  One  day  I 
went  down  the  quiet,  secluded  street,  where  they 
told  me  she  lived.  I  walked  up  and  down  before 
the  house.  It  was  very  tantalizing  to  feel  that  I 
had  no  excuse  for  approaching  her.  Of  all  the 
figures  that  had  assembled  around  me  that  night, 
hers  had  remained  the  most  distinct  upon  my 
memory.  For,  through  the  whole,  she  had  re 
tained  an  outward  bearing  which  had  correspond 
ed  with  what  I  could  see  of  her  inward  self.  Even 
when  she  threw  herself  most  earnestly  into  her 
part,  she  had  scarcely  seemed  to  lose  herself.  She 
had  always  remained  a  simple,  self-devoted  girl. 

I  longed  to  see  more  of  her.  I  wanted  to  see  her 
in  that  quiet  home.  While  I  was  wandering  up  and 
down,  I  abused  the  forms  of  society  which  would 
make  my  beginning  an  acquaintance  with  her  so 
difficult.  I  saw  Franz,  brother  Franz,  the  flute- 
player,  leave  the  house.  Scarcely  conscious  of 
what  I  was  doing,  I  went,  as  soon  as  he  had  left 
the  street,  to  the  door  which  was  open  to  all 
comers  ;  to  the  house  which  contained  more  than 
one  family.  I  made  my  way  up  stairs  and  knocked 
at  a  door  to  which  Franz's  card  was  attached. 

It  was  opened  by  Marie.  She  stood  before  me 
with  a  handkerchief  tied  over  her  head,  and  a 
broom  in  her  hand,  but  she  looked,  to  me,  as  beau 
tiful  as  she  had  done  behind  the  glare  of  the  foot- 


THE   SPIDER'S  EYE.  27 

lights.  Her  simplicity  was  here  even  more  fasci 
nating. 

She  held  the  door  partly  open,  while  I,  to  re 
cover  myself,  asked  for  Franz.  She  told  me  he 
was  gone  out,  but  would  return  soon,  if  I  would 
wait  for  him.  I  was  never  less  anxious  to  see  any 
person  than  then  to  see  Franz,  but  I  could  not  re 
sist  entering  the  room,  and  this,  in  spite  of  the 
apologetic  air  of  Marie.  The  room  looked  as  neat 
as  I  had  imagined  it,  seeing  it  from  the  mirror  of 
Marie's  mind.  I  should  say  it  scarcely  needed 
that  broom  which  still  remained  expectantly  in 
Marie's  hand.  A  piano,  spider-legged,  in  the 
number  and  thinness  of  these  supports,  stood  at 
one  side  of  the  room,  weighed  down  with  classic- 
looking  music.  A  bouquet,  that  had  been  given 
by  the  hand  of  the  prima  donna  to  Marie,  stood 
upon  the  piano. 

Otherwise  it  was  a  common  enough  looking 
room.  Some  remark  being  necessary,  I  inquired 
of  Franz's  health,  and  hoped  he  was  not  wearing 
himself  out  with  hard  work  ;  I  had  seen  him  regu 
larly  at  the  opera.  Marie  encouraged  me  with  re 
gard  to  her  brother's  health,  and  still,  the  opera 
even  did  not  serve  to  open  a  conversation  with 
Marie. 

Then,  indeed,  did  I  wish  that  I  was  the  hero  of  a 
novel.  I  might  have  told  her  I  was  writing  an 
opera,  and  have  asked  her  to  study  for  its  heroine. 
I  might  have  retired,  and  sent  her,  directly  and 
mysteriously,  a  grand  piano  of  the  very  grandest 


2o  THE    SPIDER'S  EYE. 

scale.  Or,  I  might  have  asked  her  to  sit  down  to 
that  old-fashioned  instrument,  and  have  asked  her 
to  let  me  hear  her  sing,  for  my  nieces  were  in  need 
of  a  new  teacher.  I  might  have  engaged  Franz, 
with  promise  of  a  high  salary,  to  write  me  the 
music  of  songs,  or  a  new  sonata.  But  I  had 
neither  the  salary  nor  the  nieces.  I  had  not  even 
an  excuse  for  standing  there.  It  was  very  foolish 
of  me,  but  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  it  was  ex 
ceedingly  impertinent  of  me  to  be  there. 

Instead  of  informing  Marie  that  I  was  intimately 
acquainted  with  her,  that  I  had  shared  every  emo 
tion  of  her  soul,  on  the  exciting  opera  night,  I 
stated  that  I  could  call  again  upon  brother  Franz. 
I  regretted,  at  the  same  time,  that  I  had  not  my 
card,  and  left  the  room  with  a  courteous  bow  of 
dismissal  from  Marie. 

I  have  walked  that  way  very  often.  Once  or 
twice  I  have  seen  Marie  at  the  window,  when  she 
has  not  seen  me.  But  I  have  not  attempted  to 
visit  her  again.  Of  what  use  is  it  for  me,  then,  to 
have  such  a  knowledge  of  her,  when  she  does  not 
have  a  similar  one  sympathetic  with  me  ?  She  has 
not  sung  in  public  of  late,  and  I  do  not  know  the 
reason  why  she  has  not. 

My  friends  are  fond  of  asking  me  why  I,  every 
night,  sit  in  a  different  place  at  the  theatre  ;  and 
why  I  have  such  a  fancy  for  a  seat  in  the  midst  of 
the  trumpets  of  the  orchestra,  and  directly  under 
the  leader.  I  am  striving  to  make  new  acoustic 
discoveries. 


THE   SPIDER'S  EYE.  29 

But  I  dare  not  state  in  what  theatre  it  is  that  my 
point  of  observation  can  be  found,  nor  ask  of  the 
management  to  make  an  alteration  in  the  position 
of  the  orchestra,  lest  some  night  I  should  be  ob- 
sgrved,  and  expose  all  the  secrets  of  my  breast  to 
a  less  confidential  observer. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

BY  FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT. 


"  T  T  E  is  one  of  the  Americans,"  his  fellow  /<?- 
L  A    cataires  said   among  themselves.      "  Poor 
and  alone  and  in  bad  health.     A  queer  fellow." 

Having  made  this  reply  to  those  who  questioned 
them,  they  were  in  the  habit  of  dismissing  the  sub 
ject  lightly.  After  all,  it  was  nothing  to  them,  since 
he  had  never  joined  their  circle. 

They  were  a  gay,  good-natured  lot,  and  made 
a  point  of  regarding  life  as  airily  as  possible,  and 
taking  each  day  as  it  came  with  fantastic  good 
cheer.  The  house — which  stood  in  one  of  the 
shabbiest  corners  of  the  Latin  Quarter — was  full 
of  them  from  floor  to  garret — artists,  students, 
models,  French,  English,  Americans,  living  all  of 
them  merrily,  by  no  means  the  most  regular  of  lives. 
But  there  were  good  friends  among  them  ;  their 
world  was  their  own,  and  they  found  plenty  of 

**»  Scr liner's  Monthly,  May,  1879. 


A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER.          31 

sympathy  in  their  loves  and  quarrels,  their  luck 
and  ill-luck.  Upon  the  whole  there  was  more  ill- 
luck  than  luck.  Lucky  men  did  not  choose  for 
their  head-quarters  such  places  as  this  rather  di 
lapidated  building, — they  could  afford  to  go  else 
where,  to  places  where  the  Quarter  was  better, 
where  the  stairs  were  less  rickety,  the  passages  less 
dark,  and  the  concierge  not  given  to  chronic  intoxi 
cation.  Here  came  the  unlucky  ones,  whose  ill- 
luck  was  of  various  orders  and  degrees  :  the  young 
ones  who  were  some  day  to  paint  pictures  which 
would  be  seen  in  the  Palais  de  1'Industrie  and 
would  be  greeted  with  acclamations  by  an  appreci 
ative  public  ;  the  older  ones  who  had  painted  pict 
ures  which  had  been  seen  at  the  Palais  de  1'Indus- 
trie  and  had  not  been  appreciated  at  all  ;Hhe  poets 
whose  sonnets  were  of  too  subtle  an  order  to  reach 
the  common  herd  ;  the  students  who  had  lived 
beyond  the  means  allowed  them  by  their  highly 
respectable  families,  and  who  were  consequently 
somewhat  off  color  in  the  eyes  of  the  respectable 
families  in  question — these  and  others  of  the  same 
class,  all  more  or  less  poor,  more  or  less  out  at 
elbows,  and  more  or  less  in  debt.  And  yet,  as  I 
have  said,  they  lived  gayly.  They  painted,  and 
admired  or  criticised  each  other's  pictures  ;  they 
lent  and  borrowed  with  equal  freedom  ;  they  be 
moaned  their  wrongs  loudly,  and  sang  and 
laughed  more  loudly  still  as  the  mood  seized  them  ; 
and  any  special  ill-fortune  befalling  one  of  their 
number  generally  aroused  a  display  of  sympathy 


32         A    STORY  OF    THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

which,  though  it  might  not  last  long,  was  always  a 
source  of  consolation  to  the  luckless  one. 

But  the  American,  notwithstanding  he  had  been 
in  the  house  for  months,  had  never  become  one  of 
them.  He  had  been  seen  in  the  early  spring  going 
up  the  stairway  to  his  room,  \lhich  was  a  mere 
garret  on  the  sixth  story,  and  it  had  been  expected 
among  them  that  in  a  day  or  so  he  would  present 
himself  for  inspection.  But  this  he  did  not  do, 
and  when  he  encountered  any  of  their  number  in 
his  out-goings  or  in-comings  he  returned  their 
greetings  gently  in  imperfect  French.  He  spoke 
slowly  and  with  difficulty,  but  there  was  no  cold 
ness  in  his  voice  or  manners,  and  yet  none  got 
much  further  than  the  greeting. 

He  was  a  young  fellow,  scarcely  of  middle  height, 
frail  in  figure,  hollow-chested,  and  with  a  gentle 
face  and  soft,  deeply  set  dark  eyes.  That  he 
worked  hard  and  lived  barely  it  was  easy  enough  to 
discover.  Part  of  each  day  he  spent  in  the  various 
art  galleries,  and  after  his  return  from  these  visits 
he  was  seen  no  more  until  the  following  morning. 

"  Until  the  last  ray  of  light  disappears  he  is  at 
his  easel,"  said  a  young  student  whom  a  gay 
escapade  had  temporarily  banished  to  the  fifth 
floor.  "  I  hear  him  move  now  and  then  and  cough. 
He  has  a  villainous  cough." 

"  He  is  one  of  the  enthusiasts,"  said  another. 
"  One  can  read  it  in  his  face.  What  fools  they  are 
— these  enthusiasts  !  They  throw  away  life  that  a 
crown  of  laurel  may  be  laid  upon  their  coffins." 


A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER.         33 

In  the  summer  some  of  them  managed  to  leave 
Paris,  and  the  rest  had  enough  to  do  to  organize 
their  little  excursions  and  make  the  best  of  the 
sunshine,  shade  and  warmth.  But  when  those 
who  had  been  away  returned  and  all  settled  down 
for  the  winter,  they  found  the  "  American,"  as 
they  called  him,  in  his  old  place.  He  had  not  been 
away  at  all  ;  he  had  worked  as  hard  as  ever 
through  midsummer  heat  and  autumn  rain  ;  he 
was  frailer  in  figure,  his  clothes  were  more  worn, 
his  face  was  thinner  and  his  eyes  far  too  hollow  and 
bright,  but  he  did  not  look  either  discouraged  or 
unhappy. 

"How  does  he  live?"  exclaimed  the  concierge 
dramatically.  '  The  good  God  knows  !  He  eats 
nothing,  he  has  no  fire,  he  wears  the  clothing  of 
midsummer  —  he  paints — he  paints  —  he  paints  ! 
Perhaps  that  is  enough  for  him.  It  would  not  be 
for  me." 

At  this  time — just  as  the  winter  entered  with 
bleak  winds  and  rains  and  falls  of  powdery  snow — 
there  presented  herself  among  them  an  arrival 
whose  appearance  created  a  sensation. 

One  night  on  his  way  upstairs,  the  American 
found  himself  confronted  on  the  fourth  floor  by  a 
Hood  of  light  streaming  through  the  open  door  of 
a  before  unoccupied  room.  It  was  a  small  room, 
meagerly  furnished,  but  there  was  a  fire  in  it  and 
half  a  dozen  people  who  laughed  and  talked  at 
the  top  of  their  voices.  Five  of  them  were  men  he 
had  seen  before, — artists  who  lived  in  the  house, — 


34         A    STORY  OF  THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

but  the  sixth  was  a  woman  whom  he  had  never  seen 
and  whose  marvellous  beauty  held  him  spell-bound 
where  he  stood. 

She  was  a  woman  of  twenty-two  or  three,  with 
an  oval  face  whose  fairness  was  the  fairness  of 
ivory.  She  was  dark-eyed  and  low-browed,  and 
as  she  leaned  forward  upon  the  table  and  looked 
up  at  the  man  who  spoke  to  her,  even  the  bright 
glow  of  the  lamp,  which  burned  directly  before  her 
face,  showed  no  flaw  in  either  tint  or  outline. 

"  Why  should  we  ask  the  reason  of  your  return  ?" 
said  the  man.  "  Let  us  rejoice  that  you  are  here." 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  reason,"  she  answered,  with 
out  lowering  her  eyes.  "  I  was  tired." 

"  A  good  reason,"  was  the  reply. 

She  pushed  her  chair  back  and  stood  upright  ; 
her  hands  hung  at  her  side  ;  the  men  were  all 
looking  at  her  ;  she  smiled  down  at  them  with  fine 
irony. 

"  Who  among  you  wishes  to  paint  me  ?"  she 
said.  "  I  am  again  at  your  service,  and  I  am  not 
less  handsome  than  I  was.  ' 

Then  there  arose  among  them  a  little  rapturous 
murmur,  and  somehow  it  broke  the  spell  which  had 
rested  upon  the  man  outside.  He  started,  shivered 
slightly  and  turned  away.  He  went  up  to  the  bare 
coldness  of  his  own  room  and  sat  down,  forgetting 
that  it  was  either  cold  or  bare.  Suddenly,  as  he  had 
looked  at  the  woman's  upturned  face,  a  great  long 
ing  had  seized  upon  him. 

"  I  should  like  to  paint  you — I,"  he  found  him- 


A    STORY   OF   THE  LATIN   QUARTER.         35 

self  saying  to  the  silence  about  him.  "  If  /might 
paint  you  !" 

He  heard  the  next  day  who  she  was.  The  con 
cierge  was  ready  enough  to  give  him  more  informa 
tion  than  he  had  asked. 

"  Mademoiselle  Natalie,  Monsieur  means,"  he 
said  ;  "  a  handsome  girl  that  ;  a  celebrated  model. 
They  all  know  her.  Her  face  has  been  the  founda 
tion  of  more  than  one  great  picture.  There  are 
not  many  like  her.  One  model  has  this  beauty — 
another  that  ;  but  she,  man  Dieu,  she  has  all.  A 
great  creature,  Mademoiselle." 

Afterward,  as  the  days  went  by,  he  found  that  she 
sat  often  to  the  other  artists.  Sometimes  he  saw  her 
as  she  went  to  their  rooms  or  came  away  ;  sometimes 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  as  he  passed  her  open 
door,  and  each  time  there  stirred  afresh  within  him 
the  longing  he  had  felt  at  first.  So  it  came  about 
that  one  afternoon,  as  she  came  out  of  a  studio  in 
which  she  had  been  giving  a  sitting,  she  found  wait 
ing  outside  for  her  the  thinly  clad,  frail  figure  of 
the  American.  He  made  an  eager  yet  hesitant  step 
forward,  and  began  to  speak  awkwardly  in  French. 

She  stopped  him. 

"Speak  English,"  she  said,  "  I  know  it  well." 

;'  Thank  you/'  he  answered  simply,  "  that  is  a 
great  relief.  My  French  is  so  bad.  I  am  here  to 
ask  a  great  favor  from  you,  and  I  am  sure  I  could 
not  ask  it  well  in  French." 

"What  is  the  favor?"  she  inquired,  looking  at 
him  with  some  wonder. 


36         A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

He  was  a  new  type  to  her,  with  his  quiet  direct 
ness  of  speech  and  his  gentle  manner. 

"  I  have  heard  that  you  are  a  professional 
model,"  he  replied,  "and  I  have  wished  very 
much  to  paint  what — what  I  see  in  your  face.  I 
have  wished  it  from  the  first  hour  I  saw  you.  The 
desire  haunts  me.  But  I  am  a  very  poor  man  ;  I 
have  almost  nothing  ;  I  cannot  pay  you  what  the 
rest  do.  To-day  I  came  to  the  desperate  resolve 
that  I  would  throw  myself  upon  your  mercy — that 
I  would  ask  you  to  sit  to  me,  and  wait  until  better 
fortune  comes." 

She  stood  still  a  moment  and  gazed  at  him. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said  at  length,  "are  you  so 
poor  as  that  ?" 

He  colored  a  little,  but  it  was  not  as  if  with 
shame. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  am  very  poor.  I  have 
asked  a  great  deal  of  you,  have  I  not  ?" 

She  gave  him  still  another  long  look. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  will  come  to  you  to-morrow, 
if  you  will  direct  me  to  your  room." 

"It  is  on  the  sixth  floor,"  he  replied;  "the 
highest  of  all.  It  is  a  bare  little  place." 

"  I  will  come,"  she  said,  and  was  turning  away 
when  he  stopped  her. 

"  I — I  should  like  to  tell  you  how  grateful  I 
am — "  he  began. 

"There  is  no  need,"  she  responded  with  bitter 
lightness.  "  You  will  pay  me  some  day — when  you 
are  a  great  artist."  But  when  she  reached  the  next 


A    STORY  OF    THE  LATIN  QUARTER.          37 

landing  she  glanced  down   and   saw   that  he  still 
stood  beneath  watching  her. 

The  next  day  she  kept  her  word  and  went  to  him. 
She  found  his  room  poorer  and  barer  even  than* 
she  had  fancied  it  might  be.  The  ceiling  was  low 
and  slanting  ;  in  one  corner  stood  a  narrow  iron 
bedstead,  in  another  a  wooden  table  ;  in  the  best 
light  the  small  window  gave  his  easel  was  placed 
with  a  chair  before  it. 

When  he  had  opened  the  door  in  answer  to  her 
summons,  and  she  saw  all  this,  she  glanced  quickly 
at  his  face  to  see  if  there  was  any  shade  of  confu 
sion  upon  it,  but  there  was  none.  He  appeared 
only  rejoiced  and  eager. 

"  I  felt  sure  it  was  you,"  he  said. 

"  Were  you  then  so  sure  that  I  would  come  ?" 
she  asked. 

"You  said  you  would,"  he  answered.  He 
placed  her  as  he  wished  to  paint  her,  and  then  sat 
down  to  his  work.  In  a  few  moments  he  was  com 
pletely  absorbed  in  it.  For  a  long  time  he  did  not 
speak  at  all.  The  utter  silence  which  reigned — a 
silence  which  was  not  only  a  suspension  of  speech 
but  a  suspension  of  any  other  thought  beyond  his 
task — was  a  new  experience  to  her.  His  cheek 
flushed,  his  eyes  burned  dark  and  bright  ;  it  seemed 
as  if  he  scarcely  breathed.  When  he  turned  to  look 
at  her  she  was  conscious  each  time  of  a  sudden 
thrill  of  feeling.  More  than  once  he  paused  for 
several  moments,  brush  and  palette  in  hand,  simply 


38         A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

watching  her  face.  At  one  of  these  pauses  she 
herself  broke  the  silence. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  ?"  she  asked. 
"  You  look  at  me  as  if — as  if — "  And  she  broke 
off  with  an  uneasy  little  laugh. 

He  roused  himself  with  a  slight  start  and  col 
ored  sensitively,  passing  his  hand  across  his  fore 
head. 

"  What  I  want  to  paint  is  not  always  in  your 
face,"  he  answered.  "  Sometimes  I  lose  it,  and 
then  I  must  wait  a  little  until — until  I  find  it  again. 
It  is  not  only  your  face  I  want,  it  is  yourself —your 
self  !"  And  he  made  a  sudden  unconscious  gesture 
with  his  hands. 

She  tried  to  laugh  again, — hard  and  lightly  as 
before, — but  failed. 

"  Myself  !"  she  said.  "Mon  Dieu  !  Do  not  grasp 
at  me,  Monsieur.  It  will  not  pay  you.  Paint  my 
flesh,  my  hair,  my  eyes, — they  are  good, — but  do 
not  paint  me." 

He  looked  troubled. 

"  I  am  afraid  my  saying  that  sounded  stilted," 
he  returned.  "  I  explained  myself  poorly.  It  is 
not  easy  for  me  to  explain  mysell  well." 

"  I  understood,"  she  said  ;  "  and  I  have  warned 
you." 

They  did  not  speak  to  each  other  again  during 
the  whole  sitting  except  once,  when  he  asked  her  if 
she  was  warm  enough. 

"  I  have  a  fire  to-day,"  he  said. 

•'  Have  you  not  always  a  fire  ?"  she  asked. 


A    STORY  OF    THE  LATIN  QUARTER.          39 

"  No,"  he  answered  with  a  smile  ;  "  but  when 
you  come  here  there  will  always  be  one." 

"  Then,"  she  said,  "  I  will  come  often,  that  I 
may  save  you  from  death." 

"  Oh  !"  he  replied,  "  it  is  easier  than  you  think 
to  forget  that  one  is  cold." 

"Yes,"  she  returned.  "And  it  is  easier  than 
you  think  for  one  to  die." 

When  she  was  going  away,  she  made  _ a  move 
ment  toward  the  easel,  but  he  stopped  her. 

"Not  yet,"  he  said.     "  Not  just  yet." 

She  drew  back. 

"  I  have  never  cared  to  look  at  myself  before," 
she  said.  "  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  care  now. 
Perhaps,"  with  the  laugh  again,  "  it  is  that  I  wish 
to  see  what  you  will  make  of  me!" 

Afterward,  as  she  sat  over  her  little  porcelain 
stove  in  her  room  below,  she  scarcely  compre 
hended  her  own  mood. 

"He  is  not  like  the  rest,"  she  said.  "He 
knows  nothing  of  the  world.  He  is  one  of  the 
good.  He  cares  only  for  his  art.  How  simple, 
and  kind,  and  pure  !  The  little  room  is  like  a 
saint's  cell."  And  then,  suddenly,  she  flung  her 
arms  out  wearily,  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "  Ah,  Dieu  /" 
she  said,  "  how  dull  the  day  is  !  The  skies  are 
lead  !" 

A  few  days  later  she  gave  a  sitting  to  an  old 
artist  whose  name  was  Masson,  and  she  found  that 
he  had  heard  of  what  had  happened. 

"  And  so  you  sit  to  the  American,"  he  said. 


40         A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

"Yes." 

"  Well — and  you  find  him — ?" 

"  I  find  him,"  she  repeated  after  him.  "  Shall 
I  tell  you  what  I  find  him  ?" 

"  I  shall  listen  with  delight." 

"  I  find  him — a  soul  !  You  and  I,  my  friend — 
and  the  rest  of  us — are  bodies  ;  he  is  a  soul  !" 

The  artist  began  to  whistle  softly  as  he  painted. 

"  It  is  dangerous  work,"  he  said  at  length,  "  for 
women  to  play  with  souls." 

"  That  is  true,"  she  answered,  coldly. 

The  same  day  she  went  again  to  the  room  on  the 
sixth  floor.  She  again  sat  through  an  hour  of 
silence  in  which  the  American  painted  eagerly,  now 
and  then  stopping  to  regard  her  with  searching 
eyes. 

"  But  not  as  the  rest  regard  me,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  He  forgets  that  it  is  a  woman  who  sits 
here.  He  sees  only  what  he  would  paint." 

As  time  went  by,  this  fact,  which  she  always  felt, 
was  in  itself  a  fascination. 

In  the  chill,  calm  atmosphere  ^f  the  place  there 
was  repose  for  her.  She  found  nothing  to  resent, 
nothing  to  steel  herself  against,  she  need  no  longer 
think  of  herself  at  all.  She  had  time  to  think  of 
the  man  in  whose  presence  she  sat.  From  the  first 
she  had  seen  something  touching  in  his  slight 
stooping  figure,  thin  young  face  and  dark  woman 
ish  eyes,  and  after  she  had  heard  the  simple  un 
eventful  history  of  his  life,  she  found  them  more 
touching  still. 


A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER.         41 

He  was  a  New  Englander,  the  last  surviving  rep 
resentative  of  a  frail  and  short-lived  family.  His 
parents  had  died  young,  leaving  him  quite  alone, 
with  a  mere  pittance  to  depend  upon,  and  through 
out  his  whole  life  he  had  cherished  but  one  aim. 

"  When  I  was  a  child  I  used  to  dream  of  coming 
here,"  he  said,  "  and  as  I  grew  older  I  worked  and 
struggled  for  it.  I  knew  I  must  gain  my  end  some 
day,  and  the  time  came  when  it  was  gained." 

"  And  this  is  the  end  ?"  she  asked,  glancing 
round  at  the  poor  place.  "  This  is  all  of  life  you 
desire  ?" 

He  did  not  look  up  at  her. 

"  It  is  all  I  have,"  he  answered. 

She  wondered  if  he  would  not  ask  her  some  ques 
tions  regarding  herself,  but  he  did  not. 

"  He  does  not  care  to  know,"  she  thought  sul 
lenly.  And  then  she  told  herself  that  he  did  know, 
and  a  mocking  devil  of  a  smile  settled  on  her  lips 
and  was  there  when  he  turned  toward  her  again. 

But  the  time  never  came  when  his  manner  altered, 
when  he  was  less  candid  and  gentle,  or  less  grate 
ful  for  the  favor  she  was  bestowing  upon  him. 

She  scarcely  knew  how  it  was  that  she  first  began 
to  know  the  sound  of  his  foot  upon  the  stairway 
and  to  listen  for  it.  Her  earliest  consciousness  of 
it  was  when  once  she  awakened  suddenly  out  of  a 
dead  sleep  at  night  and  found  herself  sitting  up 
right  with  her  hand  upon  her  heavily  throbbing 
heart. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  cried  in  a  loud  whisper.     But 


42         A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN   QUARTER. 

she  spoke  only  to  herself  and  thedaikness.  She 
knew  what  it  was  and  did  not  lie  down  again  until 
the  footsteps  had  reached  the  top  of  the  last  flight 
and  the  door  above  had  opened  and  closed. 

The  time  arrived  when  there  was  scarcely  a  tri 
fling  incident  in  his  every-day  life  which  escaped 
her.  She  saw  each  sign  of  his  poverty  and  physical 
weakness.  He  grew  paler  day  by  day.  There 
were  days  when  his  step  flagged  as  he  went  up  and 
down  the  staircase  ;  some  mornings  he  did  not  go 
out  at  all.  She  discovered  that  each  Sunday  he 
went  twice  to  the  little  American  chapel  in  the 
Rue  de  Berri,  and  she  had  seen  in  his  room  a  small 
Protestant  Bible. 

'  You  read  that  ?"  she  asked  him  when  she  first 
saw  it. 

"Yes." 

She  leaned  forward,  her  look  curious,  bewil 
dered,  even  awed. 

"  And  you  believe  in — God  ?" 

"Yes." 

She  resumed  her  former  position,  but  she  did  not 
remove  her  eyes  from  his  face,  and  unconsciously 
she  put  her  hand  up  to  her  swelling  throat. 

When  at  length  the  sitting  was  over  and  she  left 
her  chair  he  was  standing  before  the  easel.  He 
turned  to  her  and  spoke  hesitantly. 

"  Will  you  come  and  look  at  it  ?"  he  asked. 

She  went  and  stood  where  he  bade  her,  and 
looked.  He  watched  her  anxiously  while  she  did 
so.  For  the  first  moment  there  was  amazement  in 


A    STORY  OF    THE   LATIN  QUARTER.          43 

her  face,  then  some  mysterious  emotion  he  could 
not  comprehend — a  dull  red  crept  slowly  over  brow 
and  cheek. 

She  turned  upon  him. 

"Monsieur!"  she  cried,  passionately.  "You 
mock  me  !  It  is  a  bad  picture." 

He  fell  back  a  pace,  staring  at  her  and  suddenly 
trembling  with  the  shock. 

"  A  bad  picture  !"  he  echoed.     "/  mock  you — 

/;" 

"  It  is  my  face,"  she  said,  pointing  to  it,  "  but 
you  have  made  it  what  /  am  not  !  It  is  the  face 
of  a  good  woman — of  a  woman  who  might  be  a 
saint  !  Does  not  that  mock  me  ?" 

He  turned  to  it  with  a  troubled,  dreamy  look. 

"  It  is  what  I  have  seen  in  your  face,"  he  said 
in  a  soft,  absent  voice.  "  It  is  a  truth  to  me.  It 
is  what  /have  seen." 

"  It  is  what  no  other  has  seen,"  she  said.  "  I 
tell  you  it  mocks  me." 

"  It  need  not  mock  you,"  he  answered.  "  I 
could  not  have  painted  it  if  I  had  not  felt  it.  It  is 
yourself — yourself. ' ' 

"  Myself  ?"  she  said.  "  Do  you  think,  Monsieur, 
that  the  men  who  have  painted  me  before  would 
know  it  ?" 

She  gave  it  another  glance  and  a  shrill  laugh 
burst  from  her,  but  the  next  instant  it  broke  off 
and  ended  in  another  sound.  She  fell  upon  her 
knees  by  the  empty  chair,  her  open  hands  flung 
outward,  her  sobs  strangling  her. 


44         A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

He  stood  quite  near  her,  looking  down. 
"  I  have  not  thought  of  anything  but  my  work," 
he  said.     "  Why  should  I  ?" 

The  following  Sunday  night  the  artist  Masson 
met  in  going  down-stairs  a  closely  veiled  figure 
coming  up.  He  knew  it  and  spoke. 

"What,  Natalie?"  he  said.  "  You  ?  One 
might  fancy  you  had  been  to  church." 

"  I  have  been,"  she  returned  in  a  cold  voice,-^ 
"  to  the  church  of  the  Americans  in  the  Rue  de 
Berri." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Has  it  done  you  good  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  and  walked  past  him,  leav 
ing  him  to  look  after  her  and  think  the  matter  over, 

She  went  to  her  own  apartment  and  locked  her 
self  in.  Having  done  so,  she  lighted  every  candle 
and  lamp  —  flooding  the  place  with  a  garish 
mockery  of  brightness.  She  sang  as  she  did  it — a 
gay,  shrill  air  from  some  opera  bouffe.  She  tore  off 
her  dark  veil  and  wrappings.  Her  eyes  and  cheeks 
flamed  as  if  touched  by  some  unholy  fire.  She 
moved  with  feverish  rapidity  here  and  there — drag 
ging  a  rich  dress  from  a  trunk,  and  jewels  and  laces 
from  their  places  of  safe  keeping,  and  began  to 
attire  herself  in  them.  The  simple  black  robe  she 
had  worn  to  the  chapel  lay  on  the  floor.  As  she 
moved  to  and  fro  she  set  her  feet  upon  it  again  and 
again,  and  as  she  felt  it  beneath  her  tread  a  harsh 
smile  touched  her  lips. 


A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER.         45 

*'  I  shall  not  wear  you  again,"  she  stopped  her 
song  once  to  say. 

In  half  an  .hour  she  had  made  her  toilette.  She 
stood  before  her  glass,  a  blaze  of  color  and  jewels. 
For  a  moment  she  sang  no  more.  From  one  of  the 
rooms  below  there  floated  up  to  her  sounds  of  riot 
ous  merriment. 

"  This  is  myself,"  she  said  ;  "  this  is  no  other." 

She  opened  her  door  and  ran  down  the  staircase 
swiftly  and  lightly.  The  founder  of  the  feast 
whose  sounds  she  had  heard  was  a  foolish  young 
fellow  who  adored  her  madly.  He  was  rich,  and 
wicked,  and  simple.  Because  he  had  heard  of  her 
return  he  had  taken  an  apartment  in  the  house. 
She  heard  his  voice  above  the  voices  of  the  rest. 

In  a  moment  she  had  flung  open  the  door  of  the 
salon  and  stood  upon  the  threshold. 

At  sight  of  her  there  arose  a  rapturous  shout  of 
delight. 

"Natalie!     Natalie!     Welcome!" 

But  instantaneously  it  died  away.  One  second 
she  stood  there,  brilliant,  smiling, defiant.  The  next, 
they  saw  that  a  mysterious  change  had  seized  upon 
her.  She  had  become  deathly  white,  and  was 
waving  them  from  her  with  a  wild  gesture. 

"  I  am  not  coming,"  she  cried,  breathlessly. 
"No!  No!  No!" 

And  the  next  instant  they  could  only  gaze  at 
each  others'  terror-stricken  faces,  at  the  place  she 
had  left  vacant, — for  she  was  gone. 

She  went  up  the  stairs  blindly  and  uncertainly. 


46         A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

When  she  reached  the  turn  of  the  fourth  floor 
where  the  staircase  was  bare  and  unlighted,  she 
staggered  and  sank  against  the  balustrades,  her 
face  upturned. 

"  I  cannot  go  back,"  she  whispered  to  the  dark 
ness  and  silence  above.  "  Do  you  hear?  I  can 
not  !  And  it  is  you — you  who  restrain  me  !" 

But  there  were  no  traces  of  her  passion  in  her 
face  when  she  went  to  the  little  studio  the  next  day 
as  usual.  When  the  artist  opened  the  door  for  her, 
it  struck  him  that  she  was  calm  even  to  coldness. 

Instead  of  sitting  down,  she  went  to  the  easel  and 
stood  before  it. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  "  I  have  discovered  where 
your  mistake  lies.  You  have  tried  to  paint  what 
you  fancied  must  once  have  existed,  though  it 
exists  no  longer.  That  is  your  mistake.  It  has 
never  existed  at  all.  I  remember  no  youth,  no 
childhood.  Life  began  for  me  as  it  will  end.  It 
was  my  fate  that  it  should.  I  was  born  in  the 
lowest  quarter  of  Paris.  I  knew  only  poverty, 
brutality,  and  crime.  My  beauty  simply  raised  me 
beyond  their  power.  Where  should  I  gain  what 
you  have  insisted  in  bestowing  upon  me  ?" 

He  simply  stood  still  and  looked  at  her. 

"  God  knows  !"  he  answered  at  length.  "  I  do 
not." 

"  God  !"  she  returned  with  her  bitter  little 
laugh.  "Yes— God  !" 

Then  she  went  to  her  place,  and  said  no  more. 

But  the  next  Sunday  she  was  at  the  American 


A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER.         47 

chapel  again,  and  the  next,  and  the  next.  She 
could  scarcely  have  told  why  herself.  She  did  not 
believe  the  doctrines  she  heard  preached,  and  she 
did  not  expect  to  be  converted  to  belief  in  them. 
Often,  as  the  service  proceeded,  a  faint  smile  of 
derision  curved  her  lips  ;  but  from  her  seat  in  the 
obscure  corner  she  had  chosen  she  could  see  a  thin, 
dark  face  and  a  stooping  figure,  and  could  lean  back 
against  the  wall  with  a  sense  of  repose. 

"  It  is  quiet  here,"  was  her  thought.  "  One 
can  be  quiet,  and  that  is  much." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  her?"  the  men  who 
knew  her  began  to  ask  one  another.  But  it  was 
not  easy  for  them  to  discover  how  the  subtle  change 
they  saw  had  been  wrought.  They  were  used  to 
her  caprices  and  to  occasional  fits  of  sullenness, 
but  they  had  never  seen  her  in  just  such  a  mood  as 
she  was  now.  She  would  bear  no  jests  from  them, 
she  would  not  join  in  their  gayeties.  Sometimes 
for  days  together  she  shut  herself  up  in  her  room, 
and  they  did  not  see  her  at  all. 

The  picture  progressed  but  slowly.  Sometimes 
the  artist's  hand  so  trembled  with  weakness  that 
he  could  not  proceed  with  his  work.  More  than 
once  Natalie  saw  the  brush  suddenly  fall  from  his 
nerveless  fingers.  He  was  very  weak  in  these  days, 
and  the  spot  of  hectic  red  glowed  brightly  on  his 
cheek. 

"  I  am  a  poor  fellow  at  best,"  he  would  say  to 
her,  "  and  now  I  am  at  my  worst.  I  am  afraid  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  rest  sooner  than  I  fancied.  I 


48         A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

wish  first  I  could  have  finished  my  work.  I  must 
not  leave  it  unfinished." 

One  morning  when  he  had  been  obliged  to  give 
up  painting,  through  a  sudden  fit  of  prostration, 
on  following  her  to  the  door,  he  took  her  hand  and 
held  it  a  moment. 

"I  was  awake  all  last  night,"  he  said.  "Yes 
terday  I  saw  a  poor  fellow  who  had  fallen  ill  on  the 
street,  carried  into  the  Hotel  Dieu,  and  the  memory 
clung  to  me.  I  began  to  imagine  how  it  would  be 
if  such  a  thing  happened  to  me — what  I  should 
say  when  they  asked  for  my  friends, — how  there 
would  be  none  to  send  for.  And  at  last,  suddenly 
I  thought  of  you.  I  said  to  myself,  '  I  would  send 
for  her,  and  I  think  she  would  come.'  ' 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  she  answered.  "You  might 
depend  upon  my  coming." 

"  I  am  used  to  being  alone,"  he  went  on  ;  "  but 
it  seemed  to  me  as  I  lay  in  the  dark  thinking  it  over, 
that  to  die  alone  would  be  a  different  matter.  One 
would  want  some  familiar  face  to  look  at — " 

"Monsieur!"  she  burst  forth.  "You  speak  as 
if  Death  were  always  near  you  !" 

"  Do  I  ?"  he  said.  And  he  was  silent  for  a  few 
seconds,  and  looked  down  at  her  hand  as  he  held 
it.  Then  he  dropped  it  gently  with  a  little  sigh. 
"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  and  so  they  parted. 

In  the  afternoon  she  sat  to  Masson. 

"  How  much  longer,"  he  said  to  her  in  the 
course  of  the  sitting, — "  how  much  longer  does  he 
mean  to  live — this  American  ?  He  has  lasted 


A    STORY  OF    THE  LATIN  QUARTER,         49 

astonishingly.  They  are  wonderful  fellows,  these 
weaklings  who  burn  themselves  out.  One  might 
fancy  that  the  flame  which  finally  destroys  them, 
also  kept  them  alive." 

"  Do  you  then  think  that  he  is  so  very  ill  ?"  she 
asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"  He  will  go  out,"  he  answered,  "  like  a  candle. 
Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret  ?" 

She  made  a  gesture  of  assent. 

"  He  starves  !  The  concierge  who  has  watched 
him  says  he  does  not  buy  food  enough  to  keep  body 
and  soul  together.  But  how  is  one  to  offer  him 
anything  ?  It  is  easy  to  see  that  he  would  not  take 
it." 

There  was  a  moment  ot  silence,  in  which  he  went 
on  painting. 

"  The  trouble  is,"  he  said  at  last,  "  that  a  man 
would  not  know  how  to  approach  him.  It  is  only 
women  who  can  do  these  things." 

Until  the  sitting  was  over  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other  spoke  again.  When  it  was  over  and  Natalie 
was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  room,  Masson 
looked  at  her  critically. 

"  You  are  pale,"  he  remarked.  "  You  are  like  a 
ghost." 

"  Is  it  not  becoming  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  why  complain  ?'* 

She  went  to  her  own  room  and  spent  half  an  hour 
in  collecting  every  valuable  she  owned.  They 
were  not  many  ;  she  had  always  been  recklessly 


50         A    STORY   OF    THE   LATIN   QUARTER. 

improvident.  She  put  together  in  a  package  her 
few  jewels,  and  even  the  laces  she  considered  worth 
the  most.  Then  she  went  out,  and,  taking  a  fiacre 
at  the  nearest  corner,  drove  away. 

She  was  absent  two  hours,  and  when  she  returned 
she  stopped  at  the  entrance,  intending' to  ask  the 
concierge  a  question.  But  the  man  himself  spoke 
first.  He  was  evidently  greatly  disturbed  and  not 
a  little  alarmed. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  began,  "  the  young  man  on 
the  sixth  floor — " 

"  What  of  him  ?"  she  demanded. 

"  He  desires  to  see  you.  He  went  out  in  spite 
of  my  warnings.  Figure  to  yourself  on  such  a 
day,  in  such  a  state  of  health.  He  returned  almost 
immediately,  wearing  the  look  of  Death  itself.  He 
sank  upon  the  first  step  of  the  staircase.  When  I 
rushed  to  his  assistance  he  held  to  his  lips  a  hand 
kerchief  stained  with  blood  !  We  were  compelled 
to  carry  him  upstairs." 

She  stood  a  moment,  feeling  her  throat  and  lips 
suddenly  become  dry  and  parched. 

"  And  he  asked — for  me  ?"  she  said  at  last. 

"When  he  would  speak,  Mademoiselle  —  yes. 
We  do  not  know  why.  He  said,  in  a  very  faint 
voice,  '  She  said  she  would  come.'  ' 

She  went  up  the  staircase  slowly  and  mechani 
cally,  as  one  who  moves  in  a  dream.  And  yet  when 
she  reached  the  door  of  the  studio  she  was  obliged 
to  wait  for  a  few  seconds  before  opening  it.  When 
she  did  open  it  she  saw  the  attic  seemed  even  more 


A    STORY  OF    THE   LATIN  QUARTER.          51 

cold  and  bare  than  usual  ;  that  there  was  no  fire  ; 
that  the  American  lay  upon  the  bed,  his  eyes 
closed,  the  hectic  spots  faded  from  his  cheeks. 
But  when  she  approached  and  stood  near  him,  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her  with  a  faint 
smile. 

'*  If — I  play  you — the  poor  trick  of — dying,"  he 
said,  "  you  will  remember — that  the  picture — if  you 
care  for  it — is  yours." 

After  a  while,  the  doctor,  who  had  been  sent  for, 
arrived.  Perhaps  he  had  been  in  no  great  hurry 
when  he  had  heard  that  his  services  were  required 
by  an  artist  who  lay  in  a  garret  in  the  Latin 
Quarter.  His  visit  was  a  short  one.  He  asked  a 
few  questions,  wrote  a  prescription,  and  went 
away.  He  looked  at  Natalie  oftener  than  at  the 
sick  man.  She  followed  him  out  on  to  the  landing, 
and  then  he  regarded  her  with  greater  interest  than 
before. 

"  He  is  very  ill  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  He  will  die,  of  course, 
sooner  or  later." 

"  You  speak  calmly,  Monsieur,"  she  said. 

"  Such  cases  are  an  old  story,"  he  replied. 
"  And — you  are  not  his  wife  ?" 

"  No." 

"  I  thought  not.  Nevertheless,  perhaps  you  will 
remain  with  him  until — " 

"As  Monsieur  says,"  she  returned,  "I  will  re 
main  with  him  '  until — '  ' 

When  the  sick  man  awoke  from  the  sleep  into 


52         A    STORY   OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

which  he  had  fallen,  a  fire  burned  in  the  stove  and 
a  woman's  figure  was  seated  before  it. 

"  You  are  here  yet  ?"  he  said  faintly.  She  rose 
and  moved  toward  him. 

"  I  am  not  going  away,"  she  answered,  "  if  you 
will  permit  me  to  remain." 

His  eyes  shone  with  pathetic  brightness,  and  he 
put  out  his  hand. 

"You  are  very  kind — to  a  poor — weak  fellow," 
he  whispered.  "  After  all — it  is  a  desolate  thing — 
to  lie  awake  through  the  night — in  a  place  like  this. " 

When  the  doctor  returned  the  next  morning, 
he  appeared  even  a  shade  disconcerted.  He  had 
thought  it  quite  likely  that  upon  his  second  visit 
he  might  find  a  scant  white  sheet  drawn  over  the 
narrow  bed,  and  that  it  would  not  be  necessary  for 
him  to  remain  or  call  again  ;  but  it  appeared  that 
his  patient  might  require  his  attention  yet  a  few 
days  longer. 

"You  have  not  left  him  at  all,"  he  said  to 
Natalie.  "  It  is  easy  to  see  you  did  not  sleep  last 
night." 

It  was  true  that  she  had  not  slept.  Through  the 
night  she  had  sat  in  the  dim  glow  of  the  fire, 
scarcely  stirring  unless  some  slight  sound  of  move 
ment  from  the  bed  attracted  her  attention.  During 
the  first  part  of  the  night  her  charge  had  seemed 
to  sleep  ;  but  as  the  hours  wore  on  there  had  been 
no  more  rest  for  him,  and  then  she  had  known  that 
he  lay  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  ;  she  had  felt 
their  gaze  even  before  she  had  turned  to  meet  it. 


A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER.          53 

Just  before  the  dawn  he  became  restless,  and  called 
her  to  his  side. 

"  I  owe  you  a  heavy  debt,"  he  said  drearily. 
"  And  I  shall  leave  it  unpaid.  I  wish — I  wish  it 
was  finished." 

"It?"  she  said. 

"  The  picture,"  he  answered,  "the — picture." 

Usually  he  was  too  weak  for  speech  ;  but  occa 
sionally  a  fit  of  restlessness  seized  upon  him,  and 
then  it  seemed  as  if  he  was  haunted  continually  by 
the  memory  of  his  unfinished  work. 

"  It  only  needed  a  few  touches,"  he  said  once. 
"  One  day  of  strength  would  complete  it — if  such 
a  day  would  but  come  to  me.  I  know  the  look  so 
well  now — I  see  it  on  your  face  so  often."  And 
then  he  lay  watching  her,  his  eyes  following  her 
yearningly,  as  she  moved  to  and  fro. 

In  the  studios  below,  the  artists  waited  in  vain 
for  their  model.  They  neither  saw  nor  heard  any 
thing  of  her,  and  they  knew  her  moods  too  well  to 
be  officiously  inquisitive.  So  she  was  left  alone  to 
the  task  she  had  chosen,  and  was  faithful  to  it  to 
the  end. 

It  was  not  so  very  long  it  lasted,  though  to  her  it 
seemed  a  life-time.  A  few  weeks  the  doctor  made 
his  visits,  and  at  last  one  afternoon,  in  going  away, 
he  beckoned  her  out  of  the  room. 

He  spoke  in  an  undertone. 

"To-night  you  may  watch  closely,"  he  said; 
"perhaps  toward  morning — but  it  will  be  very 
quiet." 


54         A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

It  was  very  quiet.  The  day  had  been  bitter  cold, 
arid  as  it  drew  to  a  close  it  became  colder  still,  and 
a  fierce  wind  rose  and  whistled  about  the  old  house, 
shaking  the  ill-fitting  windows  and  doors.  But  the 
sick  man  did  not  seem  to  hear  it.  Toward  mid 
night  he  fell  into  a  deep  and  quiet  sleep. 

Before  the  fire  Natalie  sat  waiting.  Now  and 
then  a  little  shudder  passed  over  her  as  if  she  could 
not  resist  the  cold.  And  yet  the  fire  in  the  stove 
was  a  bright  one.  She  had  smiled  to  herself  as  she 
had  heaped  the  coal  upon  it,  seeing  that  there  was 
so  little  left. 

"  It  will  last  until  morning,"  she  said,  "  and 
that  will  be  long  enough."  Through  all  the  nights 
during  which  she  had  watched  she  had  never  felt 
the  room  so  still  as  it  seemed  now  between  the 
gusts  and  soughing  of  the  wind.  "  Something  is 
in  the  air  which  has  not  been  in  it  before,"  she 
said. 

About  one  o'clock  she  rose  and  replenished  the 
fire,  putting  the  last  fragment  of  coal  upon  it,  and 
then  sat  down  to  watch  it  again. 

Its  slow  kindling  and  glowing  into  life  fascinated 
her.  It  was  not  long  before  she  could  scarcely 
remove  her  eyes  from  it.  She  was  trying  to  calcu 
late — with  a  weird  fancy  in  her  mind — how  long  it 
would  last,  and  whether  it  would  die  out  suddenly 
or  slowly. 

As  she  cowered  over  it,  if  one  of  the  men  who  ad 
mired  her  had  entered  he  might  well  scarcely  have 
known  her.  She  was  hollow-eyed,  haggard  and 


A    STORY   OF    THE  LATIN  QUARTER.          55 

pallid — for  the  time  even  her  great  beauty  was 
gone.  As  he  had  left  her  that  day,  the  doctor  had 
said  to  himself  discontentedly  that  after  all,  these 
wonderful  faces  last  but  a  short  time. 

The  fire  caught  at  the  coal,  lighted  fitful  blazes 
among  it,  and  crept  over  it  in  a  dull  red,  which 
brightened  into  hot  scarlet. 

And  the  sick  man  lay  sleeping,  breathing  faintly 
but  lightly. 

"  It  will  last  until  dawn,"  she  said, — "  until 
dawn,  and  no  longer." 

When  the  first  cinder  dropped  with  a  metallic 
sound,  she  started  violently  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
her  breast,  but  after  that  she  scarcely  stirred. 

The  fitful  blazes  died  down,  the  hot  scarlet  deep 
ened  to  red  again,  the  red  grew  dull,  a  gray  film 
of  ashes  showed  itself  upon  it,  and  then  came  the 
first  faint  gray  of  dawn,  and  she  sat  with  beating 
heart  saying  to  herself, 

"  It  will  go  out  soon  —  suddenly."  And  the 
dying  man  was  awake,  speaking  to  her. 

"  Come  here,"  he  said  in  a  low,  clear  voice. 
"  Come  here." 

She  went  to  him  and  stood  close  by  the  bedside. 
The  moment  of  her  supreme  anguish  had  come. 
But  he  showed  no  signs  of  pain  or  dread,  only 
there  was  a  little  moisture  upon  his  forehead  and 
about  his  mouth. 

His  eyes  shone  large  and  bright  in  the  snowy 
pallor  of  his  face,  and  when  he  fixed  them  upon 
her  she  knew  he  would  not  move  them  away. 


56         A    STORY   OF    THE   LATIN   QUARTER. 

"I  am  glad — that  it  is — finished,"  he  said. 
"  It  did  not  tire  me  to  work — as  I  thought  it 
would.  I  am  glad — that  it  is — finished/' 

She  fell  upon  her  knees. 

11  That  it  is  finished  ?"  she  said. 

His  smile  grew  brighter. 

"  The  picture,"  he  whispered — "  the  picture/' 

And  then  what  she  had  waited  for  came.  There 
was  a  moment  of  silence  ;  the  wind  outside  hushed 
itself,  his  lips  parted,  but  no  sound  came  from 
them,  not  even  a  fluttering  breath  ;  his  eyes  were 
still  fixed  upon  her  face,  open,  bright,  smiling. 

"  I  may  speak  new,"  she  cried.  "  I  may  speak 
now — since  you  cannot  hear.  I  love  you  !  I  love 
you  !" 

But  there  came  to  her  ears  only  one  sound — the 
little  grating  shudder  of  the  fire  as  it  fell  together 
and  was  dead. 

The  next  morning  when  they  heard  that  "  the 
American"  had  at  last  fulfilled  their  prophecies, 
the  locataires  showed  a  spasmodic  warmth  of  inter 
est.  They  offered  their  services  promptly,  and  said 
to  each  other  that  he  must  have  been  a  good  fellow, 
after  all — that  it  was  a  pity  they  had  not  known 
him  better.  They  even  protested  that  he  should 
not  be  made  an  object  of  charity — that  among 
themselves  they  would  do  all  that  was  necessary. 
But  it  appeared  that  their  help  was  not  needed — 
that  there  was  in  the  background  a  friend  who  had 
done  all,  but  whom  nobody  knew. 


A    STORY  OF    THE   LATIN  QUARTER.         57 

Hearing  this  they  expressed  their  sympathy  by 
going  up  by  twos  and  threes  to  the  little  garret 
where  there  was  now  only  icy  coldness  and  si 
lence. 

Not  a  few  among  them  were  so  far  touched  by 
the  pathos  they  found  in  this  as  to  shed  a  tear  or 
so — most  of  them  were  volatile  young  Frenchmen 
who  counted  their  sensibilities  among  their  luxu 
ries. 

Toward  evening  there  came  two  older  than  the 
rest,  who  had  not  been  long  in  the  house. 

When  they  entered,  a  woman  stood  at  the 
bed's  head — a  woman  in  black  drapery,  with  a  pale 
and  haggard  face  which  they  saw  only  for  a  mo 
ment. 

As  they  approached  she  moved  away,  and  go 
ing  to  the  window  stood  there  with  her  back 
toward  them,  gazing  out  at  the  drifted  snow  up 
on  the  roof.  The  men  stood  uncovered,  looking 
down. 

"  It  is  the  face  of  an  Immortal,"  said  the  elder 
of  the  two.  "  It  is  such  men  who  die  young." 

And  then  they  saw  the  easel  in  the  shadow  of  the 
corner,  and  went  and  turned  it  from  the  wall. 
When  they  saw  the  picture  resting  upon  it,  there 
was  a  long  silence.  It  was  broken  at  last  by  the 
older  man. 

"  It  is  some  woman  he  has  known  and  loved," 
he  said.  "He  has  painted  her  soul — and  his 
own." 

The  figure  near  them  stirred — the  woman's  hand 


58         A    STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

crept  up  to  the  window's  side  and  clung  to  the 
wooden  frame. 

But  she  did  not  turn,  and  was  standing  so  when 
the  strangers  moved  away,  opened  the  door  and 
passed,  with  heads  still  uncovered,  down  the  dark 
rickety  stairs. 

A  fiercer  cold  had  never  frozen  Paris  tha'n  held  it 
ice  and  snow  bound  through  this  day  and  the  next. 
When  the  next  came  to  its  close  alt  was  over  and 
the  studios  were  quiet  again — perhaps  a  little  quiet 
er  for  a  few  hours  than  was  their  wont. 

Through  this  second  day  Natalie  lived — slowly  : 
through  the  first  part  of  the  morning  in  which 
people  went  heavily  up  and  down  the  stairs  ; 
through  the  later  hours  when  she  heard  them  whis 
pering  among  themselves  upon  the  landings  ; 
through  the  hour  when  the  footsteps  that  came 
down  were  heavier  still,  and  slower,  and  impeded 
with  some  burden  borne  with  care  ;  through  the 
moment  when  they  rested  with  this  burden  upon 
the  landing  outside  her  very  door,  and  inside  she 
crouched  against  the  panels — listening. 

Then  it  was  all  done,  and  upon  those  upper 
floors  there  was  no  creature  but  herself. 

She  had  lighted  no  fire  and  eaten  nothing.  She 
had  neither  food,  fuel,  nor  money.  All  was  gone. 

"  It  is  well,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  not  hungry, 
and  that  I  would  rather  be  colder  than  warmer." 

She  did  not  wish  for  warmth,  even  when  night 
fell  and  brought  more  biting  iciness.  She  sat  by 


A    STORY  OF   THE   LATIN  QUARTER.          59 

her  window  in  the  dark  until  the  moon  rose,  and 
though  shudders  shook  her  from  head  to  foot,  she 
made  no  effort  to  gain  warmth.  She  heard  but 
few  sounds  from  below,  but  she  waited  until  all 
was  still  before  she  left  her  place. 

But  at  midnight  perfect  silence  had  settled  upon 
the  house,  and  she  got  up  and  left  her  room,  leav 
ing  the  key  unturned  in  the  lock.  "  To-morrow, 
or  the  day  after,  perhaps,"  she  said,  "  they  will 
wish  to  go  in."  Then  she  went  up  the  stairs  for 
the  last  time. 

Since  she  had  heard  the  heavy  feet  lumbering 
with  their  burden  past  her  door,  a  singular  calm 
had  settled  upon  her.  It  was  not  apathy  so  much 
as  a  repose  born  of  the  knowledge  that  there  was 
nothing  more  to  bear — no  future  to  be  feared. 

But  when  she  opened  the  door  of  the  little  room 
this  calmness  was  for  a  moment  lost. 

It  was  so  cold,  so  still,  so  bare  in  the  moonlight 
which  streamed  through  the  window  and  flooded 
it.  There  were  left  in  it  only  two  things — the 
narrow,  vacant  bed  covered  with  its  white  sheet, 
and  the  easel  on  which  the  picture  rested,  gazing 
out  at  her  from  the  canvas  with  serene,  mysterious 
eyes. 

She  staggered  forward  and  sank  down  before  it, 
uttering  a  low,  terrible  cry. 

"  Do  not  reproach  me  !"  she  cried.  "  There  is 
no  longer  need.  Do  you  not  see  ?  This  is  my  ex 
piation  !" 

For  a  while  there  was  dead  silence  again.     She 


60         A    STORY  OF    THE  LATIN  QUARTER. 

crouched  before  the  easel  with  bowed  head  and  her 
face  veiled  upon  her  arms,  making  no  stir  or  sound. 
But  at  length  she  rose  again,  numbly  and  stiffly. 
She  stood  up  and  glanced  slowly  about  her — at  the 
bareness,  at  the  moonlight,  at  the  narrow,  white- 
draped  bed. 

"  It  Will  be — very  cold,"  she  whispered  as  she 
moved  toward  the  door.  "  It  will  be — very  cold." 

And  then  the  little  room  was  empty,  and  the  face 
upon  the  easel  turned  toward  the  entrance  seemed 
to  listen  to  her  stealthily  descending  feet. 

The  next  morning  the  two  artists  who  had  vis 
ited  the  dead  man's  room  together,  were  walking 
— together  again — upon  the  banks  of  the  Seine, 
when  they  found  themselves  drawing  near  a  crowd 
of  men  and  women  who  were  gathered  at  the 
water's  edge. 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  they  asked,  as  they  ap 
proached  the  group.  "  What  has  been  found  ?" 

A  cheerful  fellow  in  a  blue  blouse,  standing  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  answered. 

"A  woman.  Ma  foil  what  a  night  to  drown 
oneself  in  !  Imagine  the  discomfort  !" 

The  older  man  pushed  his  way  into  the  centre, 
and  a  moment  later  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"  Mon  jDieuf 

"  What  is  it  ?"  cried  his  companion. 

His  friend  turned  to  him,  breathlessly  pointing 
to  what  lay  upon  the  frozen  earth. 

"  We  asked  each  other  who  the  original  of  the 


A   STORY  OF   THE  LATIN  QUARTER.         61 

picture  was,"  he  said.     "  We  did  not  know.     The 
face  lies  there.     Look  !" 

For  that  which  life  had  denied  her,  Death  had 
given. 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

BY  GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 


EVERYBODY  in  college  who  knew  them  at  all 
was  curious  to  see  what  would  come  of  a  friend 
ship  between  two  persons  so  opposite  in  tastes, 
habitudes  and  appearance  as  John  Silverthorn  and 
Bill  Vibbard.  John  was  a  hard  reader,  and  Bill  a 
lazy  one.  John  was  thin  and  graceful,  with  some 
thing  pensive  yet  free  and  vivid  in  his  nature  ;  Bill 
was  robust,  prosaic  and  conventional.  There  was 
an  air  of  neglect  and  a  prospective  sense  of  worldly 
failure  about  Silverthorn,  but  you  would  at  once 
have  singled  out  Vibbard  as  being  well  cared  for, 
and  adapted  to  push  his  way.  Their  likes  and  dis 
likes  even  in  the  matter  of  amusement  were  dis 
similar  ;  and  Vibbard  was  easy-going  and  popular, 
while  Silverthorn  was  shy  and  had  few  acquaint 
ances.  Yet,  as  far  as  possible,  they  were  always 
with  each  other  ;  they  roomed,  worked,  walked 

***  Scribner's  Monthly,  A  ugust,  1878. 


TWO   PURSE-COMPANIONS.  63 

and  lounged  in  company,  and  often  made  mutual 
concessions  of  taste  so  that  they  might  avoid  being 
separated.  It  was  also  discovered  that  though 
their  allowances  were  unequal,  they  had  put  them 
together  and  paid  all  expenses  out  of  a  common 
purse.  Their  very  differences  made  this  alliance  a 
great  advantage  in  some  respects,  and  it  was  ren 
dered  stronger  by  the  fact  that,  however  incom 
patible  outwardly,  they  both  agreed  in  acting  with 
an  earnest  straightforwardness. 

But  perhaps  I  had  better  describe  how  I  first 
saw  them  together.  It  was  on  a  Saturday,  when  a 
good  many  men  were  always  sure  to  be  found  dis 
porting  themselves  on  the  ball-field.  I  used  to 
exercise  my  own  muscles  by  going  to  look  at  them, 
on  these  occasions  ;  and  on  that  particular  day  I 
came  near  being  hit  by  a  sudden  ball,  which  was 
caught  by  an  active,  darting  figure  just  in  time  to 
save  my  head  from  an  awkward  encounter.  I 
nodded  to  my  rescuer,  and  called  out  cordially, 
"  Thank  you  !" 

"  All  right,"  said  he,  in  a  glum  tone  meant  to 
be  good-naturedly  modest.  "  Look  out  for  your- 
,sr//" next  time." 

It  was  Bill  Vibbard,  then  in  the  latter  part  of  his 
freshman  year  ;  and  not  far  distant  I  discovered 
his  comrade  Silverthorn,  watching  Bill  in  silent 
admiration.  They  continued  slowly  on  their  way 
toward  an  oak  grove,  which  then  stood  near  the 
field.  Silverthorn,  a  smaller  figure  than  Vibbard, 
wore  a  suit  of  uniform  tint,  made  of  sleazy  gray 


64  TWO   PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

stuff  that  somehow  at  once  gave  me  the  idea  that 
it  was  taken  out  of  one  of  his  mother's  discarded 
dresses.  His  face  was  nearly  colorless  without 
being  pallid  ;  and  the  faint  golden  down  on  his 
cheeks  and  upper  lip,  instead  of  being  disagreeably 
juvenile,  really  added  to  the  pleasant  dreaminess 
that  hung  like  a  haze  over  his  mild  young  features. 
He  was  slender,  he  carried  himself  rather  quaintly  ; 
but  his  gait  was  buoyant  and  spirited.  At  that 
season  the  lilacs  were  in  bloom,  and  Silverthorn 
held  a  glorious  plume  of  the  pale  blossoms  in  his 
hand.  What  the  first  touch  of  fire  is  to  the  woods 
in  autumn,  the  blooming  of  the  lilac  is  to  the  new 
summer — a  mystery,  a  beauty,  too  exquisite  to  last 
long  intact  ;  evanescent  as  human  breath,  yet,  like 
that,  fraught  with  incalculable  values.  All  this 
Silverthorn  must  have  felt  to  the  full,  judging  from 
the  tender  way  in  which  he  held  the  flowers,  even 
while  absorbed  in  talk  with  his  friend.  His  fingers 
seemed  conscious  that  they  were  touching  the 
clue  to  a  finer  life.  In  Vibbard's  warm,  tough 
fist,  the  lilacs  would  have  faded  within  ten  minutes. 
Vibbard  was  stocky  and  muscular,  and  his  feet 
went  down  at  each  step  as  if  they  never  meant  to 
come  up  again.  He  wore  stylish  clothes,  kept  his 
hands  much  in  his  coat  pockets,  affected  high- 
colored  neck-scarfs,  and  had  a  red  face  with  blunt 
features.  When  he  was  excited,  his  face  wore  a 
fierce  aspect  ;  when  he  felt  friendly,  it  became 
almost  foolishly  sentimental  ;  as  a  general  thing  it 
was  morosely  inert. 


TWO   PURSE-COMPANIONS.  65 

Being  in  my  senior  year,  I  did  not  see  much  of 
either  Vibbard  or  his  friend  ;  but  I  sometimes  occu 
pied  myself  with  attempts  to  analyze  the  sources  of 
their  intimacy.  I  remember  stating  to  one  of  my 
young  acquaintances  that  Vibbard  probably  had  a 
secret  longing  to  be  feminine  and  ideal,  and  that 
Silverthorn  felt  himself  at  fault  in  masculine  tough 
ness  and  hardihood,  so  that  each  sought  the  com 
panionship  of  the  other,  hoping  to  gain  some  of 
the  qualities  which  he  himself  lacked  ;  and  my 
young  acquaintance  offended  me  by  replying,  as 
if  it  had  all  been  perfectly  obvious,  "  Of  course." 

After  I  had  been  graduated,  and  had  entered  the 
Law  School,  Silverthorn  and  Vibbard  came  to  my 
room  one  day,  on  a  singular  errand,  which — though 
I  did  not  guess  it  then — was  to  influence  their  lives 
for  many  a  year  afterward. 

"  Ferguson,"  began  Bill,  rather  shyly,  when 
they  had  seated  themselves,  "  I  suppose  you  know 
enough  of  law,  by  this  time,  to  draw  up  a  paper." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so  ;  or  draw  it  down,  either,"  I 
replied.  But  I  saw  at  once  that  my  flippancy  did 
not  suit  the  occasion,  for  the  two  young  fellows 
glanced  at  each  other  very  seriously  and  seemed 
embarrassed.  "  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?"  I 
asked. 

Silverthorn  now  spoke,  in  his  soft  light  inexperi 
enced  voice,  which  possessed  a  singular  charm. 

"  It's  all  Bill's  idea,"  said  he,  rather  carelessly. 
"  I  would  much  rather  have  the  understanding  in 
words,  but  he — " 


66  TWO   PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

"  Yes,"  broke  in  Bill,  growing  suddenly  red  and 
vehement,  "  I'm  not  going  to  have  it  a  thing  that 
can  be  forgotten.  No  one  knows  what  might  hap 
pen." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  I,  "  if  I'm  to  help  you,  you'd 
better  fire  away  and  tell  me  what  it  is  you're 
after." 

"  I  will,"  returned  Vibbard,  with  a  touch  of 
that  fierceness  which  marked  his  resolute  moods. 
"  Thorny  and  I  have  agreed  to  stand  by  each  other 
when  we  quit  college.  Men  are  always  forming 
friendships  in  the  beginning  of  life,  and  then  get 
ting  dragged  apart  by  circumstances,  such  as  wide 
separation  and  different  interests.  We  don't  want 
this  to  happen,  and  so  we've  made  a  compact  that 
whichever  one  of  us,  Thorny  or  me,  shall  be  worth 
thirty  thousand  dollars  first, — why  that  one  is  to 
give  the  other  half.  That  is,  unless  the  second  one 
is  already  well  enough  off,  so  that  to  give  him  a 
full  half  would  put  him  ahead  of  whichever  has  the 
thirty  thousand.  D'  you  see  ?" 

"  The  idea  is  to  keep  even  as  long  as  we  can,  you 
know,"  said  Silverthorn,  turning  from  one  of  my 
books  which  he  had  begun  to  glance  through,  and 
looking  into  my  eyes  with  a  delighted,  straightfor 
ward  gaze. 

i{  That's  a  very  curious  notion  !"  said  I,  revolv 
ing  the  plan  with  a  caution  born  of  legal  readings. 
"  Before  we  go  on,  would  you  mind  telling  me 
which  one  of  you  originated  this  scheme  ?" 

I  was  facing  Silverthorn  as  I  spoke,  but  felt  im- 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  67 

pelled  to  turn  quickly  and  include  Vibbard  in  the 
question.  They  were  both  silent.  It  was  plain, 
after  a  moment,  that  they  really  didn't  know  which 
one  of  them  had  first  thought  of  this  compact. 

"  Wasn't  it  you  ?"  queried  Silverthorn,  musingly, 
of  his  comrade. 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  Vibbard  ;  then,  as  if  so 
much  subtilty  annoyed  him  :  "  What  difference 
does  it  make,  anyway?  Can't  you  draw  an  agree 
ment  for  us,  Ferguson  ?" 

But  I  was  really  so  much  interested  in  getting  at 
their  minds  through  this  channel,  that  I  couldn't 
comply  at  once. 

"  Now,  you  two  fellows,  you  know,"  said  I, 
laughing,  "  are  younger  than  I,  and  I  think  it  be 
comes  me  to  know  exactly  what  this  thing  means, 
before  proceeding  any  further  in  it.  How  can  I 
tell  but  one  of  you  is  trying  to  get  an  advantage 
over  the  other  ?" 

The  pair  looked  startled  at  this,  but  it  was  only, 
I  found,  because  they  were  so  astonished  at  having 
such  a  construction  put  upon  their  project. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  I  hastened  to  say.  "  I 
wasn't  serious." 

But  Vibbard  persisted  in  a  dogged  expression  of 
gloom. 

''It's  always  this  way,"  he  presently  declared, 
in  a  heavy,  provoked  tone.  "  My  father,  you  know, 
is  a  shrewd  man,  and  everybody  is  forever  accusing 
me  of  being  mean  and  overreaching.  But  I  never 
dreamed  that  it  could  be  imputed  in  such  a  move  as 


68  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

— well,  never  mind  !"  he  suddenly  exclaimed  in  a 
loud  voice,  and  with  assumed  indifference,  getting 
up  from  his  chair.  "  Of  course  it's  all  over  now. 
I  sha'n't  do  anything  more  about  it,  after  what  Fer 
guson  has  said."  He  was  so  sulky  that  he  had  to 
resort  to  thus  putting  me  in  the  third  person,  al 
though  he  was  not  addressing  these  words  to  Sil- 
verthorn.  Then  he  gave  his  thick  frame  a  slight 
shake,  as  if  to  get  rid  of  the  disagreeable  feelings  I 
had  excited,  and  turned  toward  his  friend.  On  the 
instant  there  came  into  his  unmoved  eyes  and  his 
matter-of-fact  countenance  a  look  of  sentiment  so 
incongruous  as  to  be  almost  laughable.  "  I  wish 
I  could  have  done  it,  Thorny,"  said  he,  wistfully. 

"  Hold  on,  Vibbard,"  I  interposed.  "  Don't  be 
discouraged." 

He  paid  no  attention. 

Upon  this  Silverthorn  fired  up. 

"  Hullo,  Bill,  this  won't  do  !  Do  you  suppose 
I'm  going  to  let  our  pet  arrangement  drop  that 
way  and  leave  you  to  be  so  misconstrued  ?  Come 
back  here  and  sit  down."  (Vibbard  was  already 
at  the  door.)  "  As  for  your  getting  any  advantage 
out  of  this,  is  it  likely  ?  Why,  you  are  well  off 
now,  to  begin  with  ;  that  is,  your  father  is  ;  and  I 
am  poor,  downright  poor — Ferguson  must  have 
seen  that." 

Here  was  a  surprise  !  The  dreamy  youth  was 
proving  himself  much  more  sensible  than  the  beefy 
and  practical  one.  Vibbard,  however,  seemed  to 
enjoy  being  admonished  by  Silverthorn,  and  re- 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  69 

sumed  his  seat  quite  meekly.  To  me,  in  my  bal 
ancing  frame  of  mind,  it  occurred  that  one  might  go 
farther  than  Silverthorn  had  done,  in  saying  that 
any  advantage  to  Vibbard  was  very  improbable  ; 
one  might  assume  that  it  was  surely  Silverthorn 
who  would  reap  the  profit.  But  I  decided  not  to 
disturb  the  already  troubled  waters  any  more. 

Silverthorn,  however,  expressed  this  idea  : 
"  You'll  be  thinking,"  he  said  to  me,  with  a  smile, 
"  that  /  am  going  to  get  the  upper  hand  in  this 
bargain  ;  and  I  know  there  seems  a  greater  chance 
of  it.  But  then  I  have  hopes — I — "  The  dreamy 
look,  which  I  have  described  by  the  simile  of  a 
haze,  gathered  and  increased  on  his  fair  ingenuous 
young  face,  and  his  eyes  quite  ignored  me  for  a 
moment,  being  fixed  on  some  imaginary  outlook 
very  entrancing  to  him,  until  he  recalled  his 
flagging  voice,  to  add' :  "  Well,  I  don't  know  that 
I  can  put  it  before  you,  but  there  are  possibilities 
which  may  make  a  great  difference  in  my  fortunes 
within  a  few  years." 

I  fancied  that  Vibbard  gave  me  a  quick,  confi 
dential  glance,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Don't  disturb 
that  idea.  Let  him  think  so."  But  the  next 
moment  his  features  were  as  inert  as  ever. 

It  turned  out,  on  inquiry,  that  only  Vibbard  was 
of  age  ;  his  friend  being  quick  in  study,  had  en 
tered  college  early,  and  nearly  two  years  stood 
between  him  and  his  majority  ;  so  that,  if  their 
contract  was  to  be  binding,  they  would  have  to 
defer  it  for  that  length  of  time.  I  was  prepared 


70  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

for  their  disappointment  ;  but  Silver-thorn,  after 
an  instant's  reflection,  seemed  quite  satisfied.  As 
they  were  going,  he  hurried  back,  leaving  his  friend 
out  of  ear-shot,  and  explained  himself, — 

"  You  see,  Vibbard  has  an  idea  that  I  shall  never 
succeed  in  life, — financially,  that  is, — and  so  he 
wants  to  fasten  this  agreement  on  me,  to  prevent 
pride  or  anything  making  me  back  out,  you  know, 
by  and  by.  But  I  like  all  the  better  to  have  it  left 
just  as  it  is  for  a  while,  so  that  if  we  should  ever 
put  it  on  paper  he  needn't  feel  that  he  had  hurried 
into  the  thing  too  rashly." 

"  I  understand,"  I  replied  ;  and  I  pressed  his 
hand  warmly,  for  his  frankness  and  genuineness 
had  pleased  me. 

When  they  were  gone,  I  pondered  several  min 
utes  on  the  novelty  and  boyish  naivete  of  the  whole 
proceeding,  and  found  myself  a  good  deal  refreshed 
by  the  sincerity  of  the  two  young  fellows  and  their 
fine  confidence  in  the  perfectibility  of  the  future. 
It  seemed  to  me,  the  more  I  thought  of  it,  that  I 
could  hold  on  to  this  scheme  of  theirs  as  a  help  to 
myself  in  retaining  a  healthy  freshness  of  spirit. 
"At  any  rate,"  I  said,  "  I  won't  allow  myself  to  go 
adrift  into  cynicism  as  long  as  they  keep  faith  with 
their  ideal." 

From  time  to  time  during  the  two  years,  I 
encountered  the  friends  casually  ;  and  I  remember 
having  a  fancy  that  their  faces— which  of  course 
altered  somewhat,  as  they  matured — were  acquir 
ing  a  kind  of  likeness  ;  or,  rather,  were  exchang- 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  71 

ing  expressions.  Silverthorn's  grew  rounder  and 
brightened  a  degree  in  color  ;  his  glance  had  less 
momentum  in  it  ;  he  looked  more  commonplace 
and  contented.  On  the  other  hand,  Vibbard, 
through  mental  exertion  (for  he  had  lately  been 
studying  hard)  and  the  society  of  his  junior,  had 
modified  the  inertia  of  his  own  expression.  The 
strength  of  his  features  began  to  be  mingled  with 
gentleness.  But  this  I  recalled  only  at  a  later 
time. 

Near  the  end  of  the  two  years'  limit,  when  the 
boon  companions  were  on  the  eve  of  taking  their 
degrees,  I  found  that  another  element  had  come 
into  their  affairs. 

Going  out  one  evening  to  visit  a  friend  who  lived 
at  some  distance  on  one  of  the  large  railroads,  I 
had  a  glimpse  of  a  small  manufacturing  place, 
which  the  train  passed  with  great  rapidity  at  late 
twilight.  The  large  mill  was  already  lighted  up, 
and  every  window  flashed  as  we  sped  by.  But  the 
sunset  had  not  quite  faded,  and,  from  the  colored 
sky  far  away  behind  the  mill,  light  enough  still 
came  to  show  the  narrow  glen  with  its  wall  of 
autumn  foliage  on  either  side,  the  black  and  silent 
river  above  the  dam,  the  sudden  shining  screen  of 
falling  water  at  the  dam  itself,  and  again  a  smooth 
dark  current  below,  running  toward  us  and  under 
the  railroad  embankment.  There  was  a  small 
settlement,  of  operatives'  houses  near  the  factory, 
and  two  or  three  larger  homes  were  visible,  snugly 
placed  among  the  trees.  We  were  swept  away  out 


72  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

of  sight  in  a  moment  ;  but  there  was  something  so 
striking  in  that  single  glimpse,  that  a  traveller  in 
the  next  seat,  who  had  not  spoken  to  me  before, 
turned  and  asked  me  what  place  it  was.  I  did  not 
know.  I  afterward  learned  that  it  was  Stansby,  a 
factory  village  perhaps  forty  miles  from  Cam 
bridge.  Finding  that  the  memory  of  the  spot 
clung  to  me,  I  wished  to  know  more  about  it  ;  and 
one  day  in  the  following  spring,  when  I  needed  a 
change  from  the  city,  I  actually  went  out  there. 
Stansby  did  not  prove  to  be  a  very  picturesque 
place  ;  yet  its  gentle  hills,  with  outcroppings  of 
cold  granite,  the  deep-hued  river  between,  and  the 
cotton-mill  near  the  railroad,  somehow  roused  a 
decided  interest  which  I  never  have  been  able 
wholly  to  account  for.  I  enjoyed  strolling  about, 
but  was  beginning  to  think  of  a  train  back  to  Bos 
ton,  when  a  turn  of  the  road,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  mill,  brought  me  face  to  face  with  a 
young  girl  who  was  approaching  slowly  with  a 
book  in  her  hand,  which  she  read  as  she  walked. 

She  was  not  a  beautiful  girl,  and  not  at  all  what 
is  understood  by  a  "  brilliant"  girl  ;  yet  at  the 
very  first  look  she  excited  my  interest,  as  Stansby 
village  itself  had  done.  In  every  outline  and 
motion  she  showed  perfect  health  ;  her  clear  color 
was  tonic  to  the  eye  ;  her  deep  brown  hair,  at  the 
same  time  that  it  gave  a  restful  look  to  her  fore 
head,  added  something  of  fervency  to  her  general 
aspect.  In  sympathy  with  the  beautiful  day,  she 
had  taken  off  her  hat  (which  she  carried  on  one 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  73 

arm),  disclosing  a  spray  of  fresh  lilacs  in  her  hair. 
She  was  very  simply,  though  not  poorly,  dressed. 
All  this,  and  more,  I  was  able  to  observe  without 
disturbing  her  absorption  in  her  book  ;  but  just  as 
I  was  trying  to  decide  whether  the  firm,  com 
pressed  corners  of  her  mouth  only  meant  interest 
in  the  reading,  or  indicated  some  peculiar  hard 
ness  of  character,  she  glanced  up  and  saw  my  eyes 
bent  upon  her. 

Then,  for  an  instant,  there  came  into  her  own  a 
look  of  eager  search  ;  no  softly  inquiring  gaze, 
such  as  would  be  natural  to  most  women  on  a 
casual  meeting  of  this  sort,  but  a  full,  energetic, 
self-reliant  scrutiny.  I  don't  think  the  compres 
sion  about  her  lips  was  softened  by  her  surprise  at 
seeing  me  ;  but  that  keen  level  look  from  her  eyes 
brought  a  wonderful  change  over  her  face,  so  that 
from  being  interesting  it  became  attractive,  and  I 
was  fired  by  a  kind  of  enthusiasm  in  beholding  it. 
Involuntarily  I  took  off  my  hat,  and  paused  at  the 
side  of  the  highway.  She  bent  her  head  again, — 
perhaps  with  some  acknowledgment  of  my  bow, 
but  not  definitely  for  that  purpose,  because  she 
continued  reading  as  she  passed  me. 

But  now  came  the  strangest  part  of  the  episode. 
This  girl  disappeared  around  the  bend  of  the  road, 
and  after  her  two  young  fellows  drew  near  whom 
I  recognized  as  Vibbard  and  Silverthorn.  It  hap 
pened  that  Silverthorn,  as  on  the  very  first  day  I 
had  ever  seen  him,  carried  a  sprig  of  lilac.  Hap 
pened  ?  No;  the  lilac  in  the  girl's  hair  was  too 


74  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

strong  a  coincidence  to  be  overlooked,  and  I  was 
not  long  in  guessing  that  there  was  some  tender 
meaning  in  it. 

"  Hullo  !  Ferguson." 

"  Did  you  know  we  were  here  ?" 

These  exclamations  were  made  with  some  con 
fusion,  and  Silverthorn  blushed  faintly. 

"  No,"  said  I.     "  Do  you  come  often  ?" 

They  looked  at  each  other  confidentially. 

"  We  have,  lately/'  Vibbard  admitted. 

"  Then  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  who  that  girl  is 
that  I  just  passed." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Silverthorn,  at  once.  "  That's 
Ida  Winwood,  the  daughter  of  the  superintendent 
here  at  the  mills." 

"She  is  a  very  striking  girl,"  I  said.  "You 
know  her,  of  course  ?" 

"A  little." 

Vibbard  enlarged  upon  this  :  it  was  a  curious 
habit  they  had  fallen  into,  of  each  waiting  for  the 
other  to  explain  what  should  more  properly  have 
been  explained  by  himself. 

"  Thorny's  father,  you  know,"  said  Vibbard, 
"  was  a  great  machinist,  and  so  they  had  acquaint 
ances  around  at  mills  in  different  parts  of  the 
State.  She — that  is  Ida,  you  know — is  only  sixteen 
now,  but  Thorny  first  saw  her  when  he  was  a  boy 
and  came  here,  once  or  twice,  with  his  father." 

Silverthorn  .nodded  his  head  corroboratively. 

"  But  it  seems  to  me,"  I  said,  addressing  him, 
11  that  you  treat  her  rather  distantly  for  an  old 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  75 

acquaintance  ;  or  else  she  treats  you  distantly. 
Which  is  it  ?" 

They  laughed,  and  Vibbard  blurted  out,  with  a 
queer,  boyish  grimace  : 

"  It's  me.     She  don't  like  me.     Hey,  Thorny  ?" 

"  It's  nearer  the  truth,"  returned  his  friend,  "  to 
say  that  you're  so  bashful  you  don't  give  her  half  a 
chance  to  make  known  what  she  does  think  of  you." 

"  Oh,  time  enough — time  enough,"  said  Vib 
bard,  good-humoredly. 

Remembering  that  I  must  hurry  back  to  catch 
my  train,  I  suddenly  found  that  I  had  been  in  an 
abstracted  mood,  for  I  was  still  standing  with  my 
hat  off. 

"Well,  let  me  know  how  you  get  on,"  I  said, 
jocosely,  as  I  parted  from  the  comrades. 

Yet  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  tell  which  one 
of  them  it  was  that  I  should  expect  to  hear  from  as 
a  suitor  for  the  girl's  hand. 

It  was  within  a  fortnight  after  this  that  they 
came  to  my  office — for  I  had  been  admitted  to  the 
bar — and  announced  that  the  time  for  drawing  up 
their  long-pending  agreement  had  arrived.  They 
were  still  as  eager  as  ever  about  it,  and  I  very  soon 
had  the  instrument  made  out,  stating  the  mutual 
consideration,  and  duly  signed  and  sealed. 

Finding  that  they  had  been  at  Stansby  again,  I 
was  prompted  to  ask  them  more  about  Ida. 

"  Do  you  know,"  I  said,  boldly,  "  that  I  am  very 
much  puzzled  as  to  which  of  you  was  the  more  in 
terested  in  her?" 


76  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

They  took  it  in  good  part,  and  Silverthorn  an 
swered  : 

"  That's  not  surprising.     I  don't  know,  myself." 

"  I'm  trying,"  said  Vibbard,  bluntly,  "  to  make 
Thorny  fall  in  love  with  her.  But  I  can't  seem  to 
succeed." 

"  No,"  said  his  friend,  "  because  I  insist  upon  it 
that  she's  just  the  woman  lor  you." 

Vibbard  turned  to  me  with  an  expression  of 
ridicule. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  Thorny  is  as  much  wrapped 
up  in  that  idea  as  if  his  own  happiness  depended  on 
my  marrying  her." 

"You're  rivals  then,  after  a  new  fashion,"  was 
my  comment.  "  Don't  you  see,  though,  how  you 
are  to  settle  it  ?" 

"No." 

"  Why,  each  of  you  should  propose  in  form,  for 
the  other.  Then  Miss  Winwood  would  have  to 
take  the  difficulty  into  her  own  hands." 

"  Ha,  ha  !"  laughed  Vibbard.  "  That's  a  good 
idea.  But  suppose  she  don't  care  for  either  of  us  ?" 

"  Very  well.  I  don't  see  that  in  that  case  she 
would  be  worse  off  than  yourselves,  for  neither  of 
you  seems  to  care  for  her." 

"  Oh  yes,  we  do  !"  exclaimed  Silverthorn,  in 
stantly. 

"  Yes,  we  care  a  great  deal,"  insisted  Vibbard. 

They  both  grew  so  very  earnest  over  this  that  I 
didn't  dare  to  continue  the  subject,  and  it  was  left 
in  greater  mystery  than  before. 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  77 

At  last  the  time  of  graduation  came,  and  the  two 
friends  parted  to  pursue  their  separate  ways.  Sil- 
verthorn  had  a  widowed  mother  living  at  a  dis 
tance  in  the  country,  whose  income  had  barely 
enabled  her  to  send  him  through  college  on  a 
meagre  allowance.  He  went  home  to  visit  her  for 
a  few  days,  and  then  promptly  took  his  place  on  a 
daily  newspaper  in  Boston,  where  he  spent  six 
months  of  wretched  failure.  He  had  great  hopes 
of  achieving  in  a  short  time  some  prodigious 
triumph  in  writing,  but  at  the  end  of  this  period 
he  gave  it  all  up,  and  decided  to  develop  the 
mechanical  genius  which  he  thought  he  had  per 
haps  inherited  from  his  father.  I  began  to  have  a 
suspicion  when  I  learned  that  this  new  turn  had 
led  him  to  Stansby,  where  he  procured  a  position 
as  a  sort  of  clerk  to  the  superintendent,  Winwood. 

After  some  months,  I  went  out  to  see  him  there. 
In  the  evening  we  went  to  the  Winwoods',  and  I 
watched  closely  to  discover  any  signs  of  a  new  re 
lation  between  Silverthorn  and  the  daughter.  Mr. 
Winwood  himself  was  a  homely,  perfectly  com 
monplace  man,  whose  face  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
stamped  with  a  die  which  was  to  furnish  a  hundred 
duplicate  physiognomies.  Mrs.  Winwood  was  a 
fat,  woolly  sort  of  woman,  who  knitted,  and  rocked 
in  her  rocking-chair,  keeping  time  to  her  needles. 
A  smell  of  tea  and  chops  came  from  the  adjoining 
room,  where  they  had  been  having  supper  ;  and 
there  was  a  big,  hot-colored  lithograph  of  Stansby 
Mills  hung  up  over  the  fireplace,  with  one  or  two 


78  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

awkward-looking  engravings  of  famous  men  and 
their  families  on  the  remaining  wall-spaces.  Yet, 
even  with  these  crude  and  barren  surroundings, 
the  girl  Ida  retained  a  peculiar  and  inspiring 
charm.  She  talked  in  a  full,  free  tone  of  voice, 
and  was  very  sensible  ;  but  in  everything  she  said 
or  did,  there  was  a  mixture,  with  the  prosaic,  of 
something  so  sweet  and  fresh,  that  I  could  not  help 
thinking  she  was  very  remarkable.  In  particular, 
there  was  that  strong,  fine  look  from  the  eyes, 
which  had  impressed  me  on  my  first  casual  meet 
ing  in  the  road.  It  had  a  transforming  power, 
and  seemed  to  speak  of  resolution,  aspiration,  or 
self-sacrifice.  I  noticed  with  what  enthusiasm  she 
glanced  up  at  Silverthorn,  when  he  was  showing 
her  some  drawings  of  machinery,  executed  by  him 
self,  and  was  dilating  upon  certain  improvements 
which  he  intended  to  make.  Still,  there  was  a  re 
serve  between  them,  and  a  timidity  on  his  part, 
which  showed  that  no  engagement  to  marry  had 
been  made,  as  yet. 

He  was  very  silent  as  we.  walked  together  beside 
the  dark  river  toward  the  railroad,  after  our  call. 
But,  when  we  came  abreast  of  the  dam,  with  its 
sudden  burst  of  noise,  and  its  continual  hissing 
murmur,  he  stopped  short,  with  a  look  of  passion 
in  his  face. 

"  Things  have  changed  since  Vibbard  went 
away,"  he  said.  "  Yes,  yes  ;  very  much.  I  used 
to  think  it  was  he  who  ought  to  love  her." 

"  And  you  have  found  out — "  I  began. 


TWO  PURSE- COMPANIONS.  79 

He  laid  his  hand  quickly  on  my  arm. 

"  Yes,  I  have  found  that  it  is  I  who  love  her — 
eternally,  truly  !  But  don't  tell  any  one  of  this  ; 
it  seems  to  me  strange  that  I  should  speak  of  it, 
even  to  you.  I  cannot  ask  her  to  marry  me  yet. 
But  there  seems  to  be  a  relief  in  letting  you  know." 

I  was  expressing  my  pleasure  at  being  of  any  use 
to  him,  when  the  ominous  sound  of  the  approach 
ing  cars  made  itself  heard,  and  I  had  to  hurry  off. 
But,  all  the  way  back  to  the  city,  I  could  think  of 
nothing  but  Silverlhorn's  announcement  ;  and 
suddenly  there  flashed  upon  me  the  secret  and 
the  danger  of  the  whole  situation.  This  girl,  who 
had  so  much  interested  the  two  friends,  in  spite  of 
their  strong  contrasts  of  character,  was,  perhaps, 
the  only  one  in  the  world  who  could  have  pleased 
them  both  ;  for  in  her  own  person  she  seemed  to 
display  a  mixture  of  elements,  much  the  same  and 
quite  as  decided  as  theirs.  What,  then,  if  Vibbard 
also  should  wake  up  to  the  knowledge  of  a  love  for 
her? 

The  next  time  I  saw  Silverthorn,  which  was  a 
full  year  later,  t  said  to  him  : 

"  Do  you  hear  from  Vibbard  anything  about 
that  agreement  to  divide  your  gains  ?" 

"  No  !"  he  replied,  avoiding  my  eye  ;  "  nothing 
about  that." 

"  Do  you  expect  him  to  keep  it  ?" 

"  Yes  !"  he  said,  glancing  swiftly  up  again,  with 
a  gleam  of  friendly  vindication  in  his  eyes.  "  I 
know  he  will." 


So  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

"But  I  hear  hard  things  said  of  him,"  I  per 
sisted.  "  Reports  have  lately  come  to  me  as  to 
some  rather  close,  not  to  say  sharp,  bargains  of 
his.  He  is  successful  ;  perhaps  he  is  changing." 

For  the  first  time  I  saw  Silverthorn  angry. 

"  Never  say  a  word  of  that  sort  to  me  again  !" 
he  cried,  with  a  demeanor  bordering  on  violence. 

I  was  a  little  piqued,  and  inquired  : 

"  Well,  how  do  you  get  on  toward  being  in  a 
position  to  pay  him  ?" 

But  I  regretted  my  thrust.  Silverthorn' s  face 
fell,  and  he  could  make  no  reply. 

"  Is  there  no  prospect  of  success  with  those 
machines  you  were  talking  of  last  year?"  I  asked 
more  kindly. 

"  No,"  said  he,  sadly.  "  I'm  afraid  not.  I 
shall  never  succeed.  It  all  depends  on  Vibbard, 
now.  I  cannot  even  marry,  unless  he  gets  enough 
to  give  me  a  start." 

I  left  him  with  a  dreary  misgiving  in  my  heart. 
What  an  unhappy  outcome  of  their  compact  was 
this  ! 

Meanwhile,  Vibbard  was  thriving.  After  a  brief 
sojourn  with  his  father,  who  was  a  well-to-do  hard 
ware  merchant  in  his  own  small  inland  city,  he 
went  to  Virginia  and  began  sheep-farming.  In 
two  years  he  had  gained  enough  to  find  it  feasible 
to  return  to  New  York,  where  he  took  up  the  busi 
ness  of  a  note-broker.  People  who  knew  him 
prophesied  that  he  would  prove  too  slow  to  be  a 
successful  man  in  early  life  ;  and,  in  fact,  as  he  did 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  81 

not  look  like  a  quick  man,  he  was  a  long  time  in 
gaining  the  reputation  of  one.  But  his  sagacious 
instincts  moved  all  the  more  effectively  for  being 
masked,  and  he  made  some  astonishing  strokes. 
It  began  to  seem  as  if  other  men  around  him  who 
lost,  were  controlled  by  some  deadly  attraction 
which  forced  them  to  throw  their  success  under 
Vibbard's  feet.  His  car  rolled  on  over  them. 
Everything  yielded  him  a  pecuniary  return. 

As  he  was  approaching  his  thirtieth  birthday,  he 
found  himself  worth  a  little  over  thirty  thousand 
dollars — after  deducting  expenses,  bad  claims,  and 
a  large  sum  repaid  to  his  father  for  the  cost  of  his 
college  course.  He  had  been  only  six  years  in 
accumulating  it.  But  how  endlessly  prolonged 
had  those  six  years  been  for  Silverthorn  !  When 
three  of  them  had  passed,  he  declared  his  love  to 
Ida  Winwood,  though  in  such  a  way  that  she 
need  neither  refuse  nor  accept  him  at  once  ;  and  a 
quasi  engagement  was  made  between  them,"  having 
in  view  a  probable  share  in  Vibbard's  fortunes. 
Once, — perhaps  more  than  once, — Silverthorn  bit 
terly  reproached  himself,  in  her  presence,  for  trust 
ing  so  entirely  to  another  man's  energies.  But  Ida 
put  up  her  hands  beseechingly,  looking  at  him 
with  a  devoted  faith. 

"No,  John!"  she  cried.  "There  is  nothing 
wrong  about  it.  If  you  were  other  than  you  are,  I 
might  not  wish  it  to  be  so.  But  you, — you  are 
different  from  other  men  ;  there  is  something  finer 
about  you,  and  you  are  not  meant  for  battling 


82  TWO   PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

your  way.  But,  when  once  you  get  this  money, 
you  will  give  all  your  time  to  inventing,  or  writ 
ing,  and  then  people  will  find  out  what  you  are  !" 

There  was  something  strange  and  pathetic  in 
their  relation  to  each  other,  now.  Silverthorn 
seemed  nervous  and  weary  ;  he  looked  as  if  he 
were  growing  old,  even  with  that  soft  yellow  beard 
and  his  pale  brown  hair  still  unchanged  (for  he  was 
only  twenty-eight).  His  spirits  were  capricious  ; 
sometimes  bounding  high  with  hope,  and,  at 
others,  utterly  despondent.  Ida,  meantime,  had 
reached  a  full  development  ;  she  was  twenty-two, 
fresh,  strong,  and  self-reliant.  When  they  were 
together,  she  had  the  air  of  caring  for  him  as  for 
an  invalid. 

Suddenly,  one  day,  at  the  close  of  Vibbard's  six 
years'  absence,  Silverthorn  came  running  from  the 
mill  during  working-hours,  and  burst  into  the 
superintendent's  cottage  with  an  open  letter  in  his 
hand,  calling  aloud  for  Ida. 

"  He  is  coming  !  He  is  coming  !"  cried  he, 
breathless,  but  with  a  harsh  excitement,  as  if  he 
had  been  flying  from  an  angry  pursuer. 

"Who?  What  has  happened?"  returned  Ida, 
in  alarm. 

"  Vibbard." 

But  he  looked  so  wild  and  distraught,  that  Ida 
could  not  understand. 

"  Vibbard  ?"  she  repeated.  Then,  —  with  an 
amazed  apprehension  which  came  swiftly  upon 
her, — shutting  both  hands  tight  as  if  to  strengthen 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  83 

herself,  and  bringing  them  close  together  over  her 
bosom  :  "  Have  you  quarreled  with  him  ?" 

"  Quarreled  ?"  echoed  Silverthorn,  looking  back 
her  amazement.  "  Why,  do  you  suppose  the 
world  has  come  to  an  end  ?  Don't  you  know  we 
would  sooner  die  than  quarrel  ?" 

"  Vibbard  —  coming  !"  repeated  Ida,  as  she 
caught  sight  of  the  letter.  "  Yes  ;  now,  I  see." 

"But,  doesn't  it  make  you  happy?"  asked  her 
lover,  suddenly  annoyed  at  her  cool  reception  of 
the  news. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  pensively. 
"  You  have  startled  me  so.  Besides, — why  should 
it  make  me  happy  ?' '  A  singular  confusion  seemed 
to  have  come  over  her  mind.  "  Of  course,"  she 
added,  after  a  moment,  4<  I  am  happy,  because  he's 
your  friend." 

"  But,— the  money,  Ida  !"  He  took  her  hand, 
but  received  no  answering  pressure.  ;'  The 
money, — think  of  it  !  We  shall  be  able — "  Then 
catching  sight  of  an  expression  on  her  features  that 
was  almost  cruel  in  its  chill  absence  of  sympathy, 
Silverthorn  dropped  her  hand  in  a  pet,  and  walked 
quickly  out  of  the  house  back  to  the  mill. 
"  She  did  not  follow  him.  It  was  their  first  mis 
understanding. 

Silverthorn  remained  at  his  desk,  went  to  his 
own  boarding-house  for  dinner,  and  returned  to 
the  mill,  but  always  with  a  sense  of  unbroken 
suffering.  What  had  happened  ?  Why  had  Ida 
been  so  unresponsive  ?  Why  had  he  felt  angry 


84  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

with  her  ?  These  questions  repeated  themselves 
incessantly,  and  were  lost  again  in  a  chaotic  hum 
ming  that  seemed  to  fill  his  ears  and  to  shut  out 
the  usual  sounds  of  the  day,  making  him  feel  as  if 
thrust  away  into  a  cell  by  himself,  at  the  same  time 
that  he  was  moving  about  among  other  people. 

Vibbard  was  to  arrive  that  afternoon.  Silver- 
thorn  wished  he  had  told  Ida,  before  leaving  her, 
how  soon  his  friend  was  coming.  As  no  particular 
hour  had  been  named  in  the  letter,  he  grew  intoler 
ably  restless,  and  finally  told  Win  wood  that  he 
was  going  to  the  depot,  to  wait. 

All  this  time  Ida  had  been  nearly  as  wretched  as 
he  ;  and,  unable  to  make  out  why  this  cloud  had 
come  over  them  just  when  they  ought  to  have 
been  happiest,  she,  too,  went  out  into  the  air  for 
relief,  and  wandered  along  the  hill-side  by  the 
river. 

It  was  early  summer  again.  The  lilacs  were  in 
bloom.  All  along  the  fence  in  front  of  Winwood's 
house  were  vigorous  bushes  in  full  flower.  Ida, 
as  she  passed  out,  broke  off  a  spray  and  put  it  in 
her  hair,  wishing  that  its  faint  perfume  might  be  a 
spell  to  bring  Silverthorn  back. 

On  the  edge  of  the  wood  where  she  had  been 
idly  pacing  for  a  few  minutes,  all  at  once  she  heard 
a  crackling  of  twigs  and  dry  leaves  under  some 
body's  active  tread,  just  behind  her.  It  did  not 
sound  like  her  lover's  step.  She  looked  around. 
The  man,  a  stranger  with  strong  features  and  thick 
beard,  halted  at  once  and  looked  at  her — silently, 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  85 

as  if  he  had  forgotten  to  speak,  but  with  a  degree 
of  homage  that  dispelled  everything  like  alarm. 

She  stood  still,  looking  at  him  as  earnestly  as  he 
at  her.  Then,  she  hardly  knew  how,  a  conviction 
came  to  her. 

"  Mr.  Vibbard  ?"  she  said,  in  a  low  inquiring 
tone.  To  herself  she  whispered,  "  Six  years  !" 

Somehow,  although  she  expected  it,  there  was 
something  terrible  in  having  this  silent,  strange 
man  respond  : 

"Yes." 

He  spoke  very  gently,  and  put  out  his  hand  to 
her. 

She  laid  her  own  in  his  strong  grasp,  and  then 
instantly  felt  as  if  she  had  done  something  wrong. 
But  he  would  not  let  it  go  again.  Drawing  her  a 
little  toward  him,  he  turned  so  that  they  could 
walk  together  back  to  the  mills. 

"  Did  John  send  you  this  way  ?  Have  you  seen 
him?"  she  asked,  falteringly. 

''  No,"  said  Vibbard.  "  From  where  I  happened 
to  be,  I  thought  I  could  get  here  sooner  by  walk 
ing  over  through  Bartlett.  Besides,  it  was  pleas- 
anter  to  come  my  own  way  instead  of  by  railroad." 

"  But  how  did  you  know  me  ?" 

"  I  have  never  forgotten  how  you  looked.  And 
besides,  that  lilac." 

With  a  troubled  impulse,  Ida  drew  her  hand 
away  from  his,  and  snatched  the  blossoms  out  of 
her  hair,  meaning  to  throw  them  away.  Then  she 
hesitated,  seeing  her  rudeness.  Vibbard,  who  had 


86  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

not  understood  the  movement,  said  with  a  tone  of 
delight  : 

"  Won't  you  give  them  to  me  ?  Do  you  remem 
ber  how  you  wore  them  in  your  hair  one  day,  years 
ago?" 

"  I  have  reasons  for  not  forgetting  it,"  she 
answered  with  a  laugh,  feeling  more  at  her  ease. 
"  Well,  I  have  spoiled  this  bunch  now,  but  of 
course  you  may  have  them." 

He  took  the  flowers,  and  they  walked  on,  talking 
more  like  old  friends.  At  the  moment  when  this 
happened,  Silverthorn,  who,  while  waiting  for 
another  train  to  arrive,  had  come  back  to  the  house 
in  search  of  Ida,  passed  on  into  a  little  orchard  on 
a  slope,  just  beyond,  which  overlooked  a  bend  in 
the  road  :  from  there  he  saw  Ida  give  Vibbard  the 
lilac  spray.  At  first  he  scarcely  knew  his  old 
friend,  and  the  sight  struck  him  with  a  jealous  pang 
he  had  never  felt  before.  Then  suddenly  he  saw 
that  it  was  Vibbard,  and  would  have  rushed  down 
the  slope  to  welcome  him.  But  like  a  detaining 
hand  upon  him,  the  remembrance  of  his  foolish 
quarrel  with  Ida  held  him  back.  He  slunk  away 
secretly  through  the  orchard,  into  the  woods,  and 
hurried  to  meet  Vibbard  at  a  point  below  the 
house,  where  Ida  would  have  left  him. 

He  was  not  disappointed.  He  gained  the  spot 
in  time,  and  appeared  to  be  walking  up  from  the 
mill,  when  he  encountered  his  old  comrade  going 
sturdily  toward  it.  Nevertheless,  he  felt  uncom 
fortable  at  the  deception  he  was  using.  They 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  87 

greeted  each  other  warmly,  yet  each  felt  a  con 
straint  that  surprised  him. 

Vibbard  explained  how  he  had  come. 

"  And  I  have  seen  Ida,"  he  exclaimed  impetu 
ously,  with  a  glow  of  pleasure.  Then  he  stopped 
in  embarrassment.  "  Are  you  going  back  that 
way  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  gloomily.  "  We'll  go  over 
the  river  to  where  I  live." 

They  took  the  path  in  that  direction,  and  on  the 
way  Vibbard  began  explaining  how  he  had  ar 
ranged  his  property. 

"  It's  just  as  well  not  to  go  up  to  the  Winwoods' 
until  we've  finished  this,"  he  said,  parenthetically. 
"  And  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Thorny,  it's  a  queer 
business  for  me  to  be  about,  after  I've  been  hard 
at  work  for  so  long,  scraping  together  what  I've 
got.  I  shouldn't  much  like  people  to  know  about 
it,  I  can  tell  you  ;  and  I  never  would  do  it  for  any 
man  but  you." 

Formerly,  Silverthorn  had  been  used  to  this  sort 
of  bluntness,  but  now  it  irritated  him. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  asked,  "  that  you 
would  break  your  bargain,  if  it  had  been  made 
with  any  one  besides  me  ?" 

Vibbard  drew  himself  up  proudly. 

"  No,  sir  !"  he  declared,  in  a  cold  tone.  "  I 
keep  my  word  whenever  I  have  given  it." 

Silverthorn  uttered  an  oath  under  his  breath. 

"  If  you  mean  to  keep  your  word,  why  don't  you 
do  it  without  blustering  ?  Suppose  I  have  been 


88  Tiro  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

unfortunate  enough  to  come  out  behind  in  the 
race,  and  to  need  this  money  of  yours  ?  Is  that 
any  reason  why  you  should  grind  into  me  like  a 
file  the  sense  of  my  obligation  to  you  ?" 

"  Come,  Thorny,"  said  his  friend,  "  you  are 
treating  me  like  a  stranger.  How  long  is  it  since 
you  got  these  high-strung  notions  ?" 

"  I  suppose  I've  been  growing  sensitive  since  I 
first  perceived  that  I  was  dependent  on  your  fort 
une.  It  has  unmanned  me.  I  believe  I  might  have 
done  something,  but  for  this/' 

"  Gad,  so  might  I  be  doing  something,  now,  if  I 
had  my  whole  capital,"  muttered  Vibbard. 

He  did  not  see  how  his  remark  renewed  the 
wound  he  had  just  been  trying  to  heal.  For  sev 
eral  years  he  had  felt  that  the  compact  with  his 
friend  was  a  useless  clog  on  himself,  and  this  had 
probably  caused  him  to  dwell  too  much  on  his  own 
generosity  in  making  it. 

Both  felt  pained  and  dissatisfied  with  their  meet 
ing.  It  was  full  of  sordidness  and  discomfort  ;  it 
seemed  in  one  hour  to  have  stripped  from  their 
lives  the  romance  of  youth.  But  after  their  little 
tiff  they  tried  to  recover  their  spirits  and  succeeded 
in  keeping  up  a  sham  kind  of  gayety.  Arrived  at 
Silverthorn's  lodging,  they  completed  their  busi 
ness  ;  Vibbard  handing  over  a  check,  and  receiving 
in  exchange  Silverthorn's  copy  of  the  agreement 
with  a  receipt  in  due  form. 

"  How  long  can  you  stay,  Bill  ?"  asked  Silver- 
thorn,  more  cheerfully,  when  this  was  over.  A  sup- 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  89 

pressed  elation  at  his  good  luck  made  him  tingle 
from  top  to  toe  ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  did  not 
feel  much  interest  in  Vibbard's  remaining. 

"  I  must  be  off  to-morrow,"  said  his  friend.  "  I 
suppose  I  can  stay  here  to-night  ?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  I  must  call  on  Ida,  before  I  go." 

Silverthorn's  brow  darkened. 

"  Ah,  Thorny,"  continued  Vibbard,  uncon 
sciously,  "  it's  queer  to  look  back  to  that  time 
when  we  were  trying  to  persuade  each  other  to 
make  love  to  her  !  Do  you  know  that  since  I've 
been  away,  she's  never  once  gone  out  of  my 
mind  ?" 

"Is  that  so?"  returned  his  comrade,  with  a 
strained  and  cloudy  effort  to  appear  lightly  inter 
ested. 

."Yes,"  said  the  other,  warming  to  his  theme. 
"  It  may  seem  strange  in  a  rough  business  man  like 
me, — and  I  guess  it  would  have  played  the  Old 
Harry  with  anybody  whose  head  wasn't  perfectly 
level, — but  that  strong,  pure,  sweet  face  of  hers  has 
come  between  me  and  many  a  sharp  fellow  I've 
had  to  deal  with.  But  it  never  distracted  my 
thoughts  ;  it  helped  me.  The  memory  of  her  was 
with  me  night  and  day,  Thorny,  and  it  made  me  a 
hard,  successful  worker,  and  kept  me  a  pure- 
hearted,  happy  man.  You'll  see  that  I  don't  need 
much  persuasion  to  speak  to  her  now  !" 

While  Vibbard  was  talking,  Silverthorn  had 
risen,  as  if  interested,  and  now  stood  with  his  arm 


90  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

stretched  on  the  cheap,  painted  wooden  mantel 
piece  above  the  empty  grate  of  his  meagre  room. 
Vibbard  noticed  that  he  looked  pale  ;  and  it  sud 
denly  struck  him  that  his  friend  might  have 
suffered  from  poverty,  and  that  his  health  was  per 
haps  weakening.  A  gush  of  the  old-time  love  sud 
denly  came  up  from  his  heart,  though  he  said 
nothing. 

"  You  know  I  always  told  you,"  Silverthorn  be 
gan, — he  paused  and  waited  an  instant, — "  I  al 
ways  told  you  she  was  the  woman  for  you." 

"  Indeed  I  know  it,  old  boy,"  said  Vibbard, 
heartily. 

He  rose,  came  to  his  old  college-mate  and  took 
hold  of  his  disengaged  arm  with  both  hands, 
affectionately. 

"  Look  here,"  he  added  ;  "  there's  been  some 
thing  queer  and  dismal,  about  seeing  each  other, 
after  such  a  long  interval, — something  awkward 
about  this  settlement  between  us.  If  I've  done 
anything  to  hurt  your  feelings,  Thorny,  I'm  sorry. 
Let's  make  an  end  of  the  trouble  here  and  now, 
and  be  to  each  other  just  as  we  used  to  be.  What 
do  you  say  ?" 

"  I  say  you're  a  good,  true-hearted  fellow,  as 
you  always  were,  and  I  want  you  to  promise  that 
we  shall  keep  up  our  old  feeling  forever." 

"  There's  no  need  of  any  promise  but  this,"  said 
Vibbard,  as  they  clasped  hands. 

11  Now,  tell  me  one  thing,"  resumed  Silver- 
thorn  ;  "  did  it  never  occur  to  you,  in  all  these  six 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  91 

years,  that  I,  who  have  been  living  in  the  daily 
company  of  the  girl  you  love,  might  cross  your 
prospect  ?" 

For  a  second  or  two  Vibbard's  eyelids,  which  fell 
powerless  while  he  listened,  remained  shut,  and  a 
shock  of  pain  seemed  to  strike  downward  from  the 
brain,  across  his  face  and  through  his  whole  stal 
wart  frame. 

"  It's  your  turn  to  hurt  me,"  he  said,  slowly,  as 
he  looked  at  his  friend  again.  "  Have  you  any 
idea  how  that  bare  suggestion  cut  into  me  ?" 

"  I  think  I  have,"  said  Silverthorn,  mechani 
cally.  He  remained  very  pale.  "  But  I  see,  from 
the  way  it  struck  yon,  that  you  had  never  thought 
of  it  before.  That  relieves  me.  Give  me  your 
hand  once  more,  Bill."  Then  he  explained,  hur 
riedly,  that  he  must  go  to  the  mill  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  "  If  I'm  not  back  to  tea,  don't  wait.  The 
girl  will  come  up  and  give  it  to  you.  And  mind 
you  don't  go  over  to  the  Winwoods'  "  (this  with  a 
laugh)  ;  "  I  wish  to  give  them  a  little  warning  of 
your  visit." 

In  a  moment  he  was  gone.  Vibbard  amused 
himself  as  well  as  he  could  with  the  books  and 
drawings  in  the  room  ;  then  he  sat  down,  looked 
all  about  the  place,  and  sighed  : 

"  Poor  fellow  !  he  can  be  more  comfortable 
now." 

Before  long  the  tea  hour  came.  Thorny  had  not 
returned,  and  he  took  the  meal  alone,  watching 
the  sunset  out  of  the  window.  But  by  and  by  he 


92  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

grew  restless,  and  finally,  taking  his  hat  and  his 
cane,  which  had  an  odd-shaped  handle  made  of  two 
carved  snakes  at  once  embracing  and  wounding 
one  another,  he  went  out  and  strolled  across  the 
bridge  toward  the  Winwoods'.  By  the  time  he 
reached  there  dusk  had  closed  in,  though  the 
horizon  afar  off  was  overhung  by  a  faint,  stirring 
light  from  the  rising  moon.  He  remembered 
Silverthorn's  injunction,  however,  and  would  not 
go  into  the  cottage. 

He  passed  the  lilac-hedge,  with  its  half-pathetic 
exhalations  of  delicious  odor  recalling  the  past, 
and  was  prompted  to  step  through  a  break  in  the 
stone  wall  and  ascend  the  orchard  slope. 

He  stood  there  a  few  minutes  enjoying  the  hush 
of  nightfall  and  exulting  in  the  full  tide  of  happi 
ness  and  sweet  anticipation  that  streamed  silently 
through  his  veins.  All  about  him  stole  up  the  soft 
and  secret  perfumes  of  the  summer's  dusk, — per 
fumes  that  feel  their  way  through  the  air  like  the 
monitions  of  early  love,  going  out  from  one  soul  to 
another. 

Suddenly,  a  side-door  in  the  house  below  was 
opened,  and  two  figures  came  forth  as  if  borne 
upon  the  flood  of  genial  light  that  poured  itself 
over  the  greensward. 

They  were  Silverthorn  and  Ida. 

How  graceful  they  looked,  moving  together, — 
the  buoyant,  beautiful  maiden  and  the  slender- 
shaped  young  man,  who  even  at  a  distance  im 
pressed  one  with  something  ideal  in  his  pose  and 


TWO   PURSE-COMPANIONS.  93 

motion  !  Vibbard  looked  at  them  with  a  be 
wildered,  shadowy  sort  of  pleasure  ;  but  all  at 
once  he  saw  that  Silverthorn  held  Ida's  hand  in  his 
and  had  laid  his  other  hand  on  her  shoulder.  A 
frightful  tumult  of  feeling  assailed  him.  The 
small,  carved  serpents  on  his  stick  seemed  sud 
denly  to  drive  their  fangs  into  his  own  palm,  as  he 
clutched  the  handle  tighter. 

For  an  instant  he  hesitated  and  hoped.  Then 
the  pair,  passing  along  below  the  broken  wall, 
came  within  earshot,  and  he  heard  his  old  boon 
comrade  saying,  in  a  pleading  voice  : 

"  Rut  you  have  never  quite  promised  me,  Ida  ! 
You  have  never  fully  engaged  yourself  to  me." 

Partly  from  a  feeling  of  strangulation,  partly 
with  a  blind  impulse  to  do  something  violent, 
Vibbard  clutched  himself  about  the  throat,  tore 
furiously  at  his  collar  till  it  gave  way,  and,  in  a 
paroxysm  little  short  of  madness,  he  turned  and 
fled — he  did  not  know  where  nor  how — through 
the  darkness. 

It  seemed  to  him  for  a  long  time  as  if  he  was 
marching  and  reeling  on  through  the  woods,  stum 
bling  over  roots  and  fallen  trunks,  breaking  out 
into  open  fields  upon  the  full  run,  then  pursuing 
a  road,  or  rambling  hopelessly  down  by  the  ebon- 
hued  river, — and  as  if  he  was  doing  all  this  with 
some  great  and  urgent  purpose  of  rescuing  some 
body  from  a  terrible  fate.  He  must  go  on  foot, — 
there  was  no  other  way, — and  everything  depended 
on  his  getting  to  a  certain  point  by  a  certain  time. 


94  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

The  worst  of  it  was,  he  did  not  know  where  it  was 
that  he  must  go  to  !  Then,  all  at  once,  he  became 
aware  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  It  was  not 
some  one  else  who  was  to  be  saved.  It  was  himself. 
He  must  rescue  himself — 

From  what  ? 

At  this,  he  came  to  a  pause  and  tried  to  think. 
He  stood  on  a  commanding  spot,  somewhere  not 
far  from  Stansby,  though  he  could  not  identify  it. 
The  moon  was  up,  and  the  wide,  leafy  landscape 
was  spread  out  in  utter  silence  for  miles  around 
him.  For  a  brief  space,  while  collecting  his 
thoughts,  he  saw  everything  as  it  was.  Then,  as 
if  at  the  stroke  of  a  wand,  horrible  deformity  ap 
peared  to  fall  upon  the  whole  scene  ;  the  thousand 
trees  below  him  writhed  as  if  in  multitudinous 
agony  ;  and,  where  the  thick  moonlight  touched 
house  or  road,  or  left  patches  of  white  on  river  and 
pool,  there  the  earth  seemed  smitten  as  with  lep 
rosy.  Silverthorn,  reaching  his  room  in  an  hour 
after  Vibbard  had  left  it,  was  not  at  first  surprised 
at  his  absence.  Afterward  he  grew  anxious  ;  he 
went  out,  ran  all  the  way  to  Winwood's  house,  and 
came  back,  hoping  to  find  that  his  friend  had  re 
turned  while  he  was  searching  for  him.  He  sat 
down  and  waited  ;  he  kept  awake  very  late  ;  his 
head  grew  heavy,  and  he  fell  asleep  in  his  chair, 
dreaming  with  a  dull  sense  of  pain,  and  also  of 
excitement,  about  his  new  access  of  comparative 
wealth. 

A  heavy  step  and  the  turning  of  the  door-knob 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  95 

awoke  him.  Moonlight  came  in  at  the  window — 
pale,  for  the  dawn  was  breaking— and  his  lamp  still 
flickered  on  the  table.  Streaked  with  these  con 
flicting  glimmers,  Vibbard  stood  before  him, — his 
clothes  torn,  his  hat  gone,  his  face  pale  and  fierce. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  asked  Silver- 
thorn  wearily,  and  without  surprise,  for  he  was  too 
much  dazed. 

;<  You — you!"  said  Vibbard,  hoarsely,  pointing 
sharply  at  him,  as  if  his  livid  gaze  was  not  enough. 
"  You  have  been  taking  her  from  me  !" 

"  Ida?''  queried  Silverthorn,  with  what  seemed 
to  the  other  to  be  a  laughing  sneer. 

"Are  you  shameless?"  demanded  Vibbard. 
"  Why  don't  you  lie  down  there  and  ask  me  to 
forgive  you  for  demanding  so  little  ?  I've  no 
doubt  you  are  sorry  that  you  couldn't  get  the 
whole  of  my  money  !  But  I  suppose  you  were 
afraid  you  wouldn't  receive  even  the  half,  if  you 
told  me  beforehand  what  you  meant  to  do." 

Silverthorn  was  numb  from  sleeping  in  a  cramped 
posture  and  without  covering  ;  but  a  deeper  chill 
shook  him  at  these  words.  He  tried  to  get  up, 
but  felt  too  weak,  and  had  to  abandon  it.  He 
shivered  heavily.  Then  he  put  his  hand  care 
fully  into  the  breast  of  his  coat,  and  after  a  mo 
ment  drew  out  his  pocket  book. 

"Here  it  is,"  said  he,  very  quietly.  "I  came 
home  intending  to  give  you  back  your  money,  but 
you  were  not  here." 

"You    expect   me    to     believe   that?"    retorted 


96  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

Vibbard,  scornfully,  "  when  I  know  that  you  went 
from  here  after  receiving  the  check,  and — ah  !  I 
couldn't  have  believed  it,  if  I  hadn't  heard — " 

"  You  overheard  us,  then  ?  You  came,  though  I 
warned  you  not  to?  And  what  did  you  hear?" 
Silverthorn's  lips  certainly  curled  with  contempt 
now. 

Vibbard  answered  :  "  I  heard  you  pleading  with 
Ida  to  promise  herself  to  you." 

"  That's  a  lie,"  said  Silverthorn,  calmly. 

"  Didn't  you  say  to  her,  '  You  have  never  yet 
fully  engaged  yourself  to  me?'  Weren't  you 
pleading  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  was  begging  that  she  would  forget  all 
the  words  of  love  I  had  ever  spoken,  and  listen  to 
you  when  you  should  come  to  tell  her  your  story." 

Vibbard' s  head  bowed  itself  in  humiliation  and 
wonder.  He  came  forward  two  or  three  steps,  and 
sank  into  a  chair. 

"  Is  this  possible  ?"   he  inquired,  at  last. 

"  And  you,  too,  had  loved  her  !" 

Silverthorn  vouchsafed  no  reply. 

Vibbard,  struggling  with  remorse,  uncertainty, 
and  a  dimly  returning  hope,  brought  himself  to 
speak  once  more,  hesitatingly. 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  At  first  she  would  not  tolerate  my  proposal.  I 
saw  there  was  a  conflict  in  her  mind.  Something 
warned  me  what  it  was,  yet  I  could  not  help  fancy 
ing  that  she  might  really  be  unwilling  to  give  me 
up.  So  then  I  said  I  had  made  up  my  mind  any 


TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS.  97 

way,  as  things  stood,  to  return  you  your  money. 
I — forgive  me,  Bill,  but  it  was  not  treachery  to 
you — only  justice  to  all — I  asked  her  if  she  would 
wish  to  marry  me  as  I  was,  poor  and  without  a 
future." 

•'  And  she—"  asked  Vibbard,  trembling.  "  What 
did  she  say  ?" 

Silverthorn  let  the  pocket-book  fall,  and  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands.  It  was  answer  enough  for 
his  friend. 

Vibbard  came  over  and  knelt  beside  him,  and 
tried  to  rouse  him.  He  stroked  his  pale  brown 
hair,  and  called  him  repeatedly  "  Dear  old  boy." 

"  Poor  Thorny,  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for 
you,"  he  said,  gently.  "  Are  you  sure  you  under 
stood  her  ?" 

The  other  suddenly  looked  up. 

"  Don't  blame  her,  Bill,"  he  said,  beseechingly. 
"  Don't  let  it  hurt  your  love  for  her.  There  was 
nothing  mercenary.  She  hesitated  a  moment — and 
then  I  saw  that  it  had  all  been  a  dream  of  the  im 
possible.  I  had  always  associated  this  money  with 
myself.  It  turned  back  the  whole  current  of  her 
ideas,  and  upset  everything,  when  I  separated  my 
self  from  it.  All  the  plans  of  going  away — all  that 
life  I  had  talked  of — had  to  be  scattered  to  the 
winds  in  a  moment.  She  did  not  love  me  enough, 
for  myself  alone  !" 

"  Poor  Thorny  !"   again  murmured  his  friend. 

Love,  amid  all  its  other  resemblances,  is  like  the 


98  TWO  PURSE-COMPANIONS. 

spirit  of  battle.  It  fires  men  to  press  on  toward 
the  goal,  even  though  a  brother  by  their  side, 
pushing  in  the  same  direction,  should  fall  with  a 
mortal  wound.  And  the  fighter  goes  on,  to  wed 
with  victory,  while  his  brother  lies  dead  far  behind 
cheated  of  his  bride. 

Vibbard  offered  himself  to  Ida  the  next  day.  It 
was  a  strange  and  distressful  wooing  ;  but  she 
could  not  deny  that,  in  a  way  unknown  to  herself 
till  now,  she  had  loved  Vibbard  from  the  begin 
ning,  more  than  his  friend.  In  her  semi-engage 
ment  with  Silverthorn,  she  had  probably  been  lov 
ing  Vibbard  through  his  friend.  But  when  the 
strong  man,  who  had  gained  a  place  in  the  world 
for  her  sake,  returned  and  placed  his  heart  before 
her,  she  could  no  longer  make  a  mistake. 

Silverthorn  would  not  keep  the  money,  neither 
could  his  friend  persuade  him  to  come  and  take  a 
share  in  his  business.  He  would  not  leave  Stansby. 
Where  he  had  first  seen  Ida,  there  he  resolved  to 
dwell,  with  the  memory  of  her. 

When  I  saw  him  again,  and  he  told  me  of  this 
crisis,  he  said  : 

"I  am  not  'poor  Thorny,'  as  Vibbard  called 
me  ;  for  now  I  have  a  friendship  that  will  last  me 
through  life.  It  has  stood  the  test  of  money,  and 
hate,  and  love,  and  it  is  stronger  than  them  all." 


POOR  OGLA-MOGA. 

BY  DAVID  D.  LLOYD. 


I. 

IT  was  a  great  day  when  Miss  Slopham,  so  many 
years  conspicuous  in  our  best  society,  dis 
covered  the  North  American  Indian — not  for  the 
Indian,  perhaps,  but  certainly  for  Miss  Slopham. 
Envious  and  slanderous  tongues  said  that  Miss 
Slopham  was  afflicted  with  an  ambition.  She 
wanted  a  mission — not  a  foreign  mission,  in  any 
sense  of  the  words.  She  was  debarred  from  one 
kind  by  her  sex,  and  the  other  involved  the  possi 
bility  of  crocodiles  and  yellow  fever,  not  to  men 
tion  the  chance  of  being  sacrificed  to  some  ugly 
heathen  god.  She  could  not  paint,  or  write,  or 
sing.  The  stage  had  never  offered  any  attractions 
to  her,  for  various  reasons,  one  of  which  was,  so 
said  the  same  untrustworthy  authority,  that  she 
had  never  offered  any  attractions  to  the  stage.  She 

»**  Harper's  Magazine,  April,  1882. 


ico  POOR    OGLA-MOGA. 

was  tall  and  spare,  and  of  a  dry  and  autumnal 
aspect.  She  wanted  fame,  but  she  wanted  it  re 
spectable.  Therefore  it  was,  said  gossip,  that  this 
excellent  woman  turned  to  philanthropy.  Even 
here  her  fate  was  against  her.  If  she  had  not  been 
a  woman,  she  would  have  mourned  the  ill-luck 
that  brought  her  into  the  world  rather  late  for  the 
anti-slavery  agitation.  The  malicious  rumor,  by- 
the-way,  which  declared  that  she  wore  a  bib  and 
tucker  at  the  time  of  Jackson's  war  with  the 
United  Slates  Bank,  was  wickedly  false.  Miss 
Slopham  tried  tenement-house  reform,  but  fled  be 
fore  the  smells.  She  had  a  little  practice  in  the 
hospitals  and  orphan  asylums,  but  found  the 
sphere  too  contracted.  She  felt  that  she  needed 
the  stimulus  of  public  approval.  She  was  almost 
in  despair,  when,  as  if  by  accident,  her  eye  lighted 
on  the  North  American  Indian.  For  centuries  he 
had  been  chasing  the  buffalo  and  the  white  man, 
shooting  and  being  shot,  taking  up  the  tomahawk 
and  perishing  by  the  rifle,  robbing  and  being 
robbed,  massacring  and  pillaging  whenever  mas 
sacre  and  pillage  suited  his  grim  humor,  and  being 
all  this  while  alternately  pampered  and  starved, 
cajoled  and  cheated,  by  a  government  which  at  the 
same  time  that  it  furnished  him  with  guns  for 
shooting  its  own  soldiers,  often  failed  to  fulfil  the 
solemn  treaties  it  had  made  with  him. 

He  had  been  having  this  lively  and  variegated 
experience  for  a  century  or  so,  without  any  intima 
tion,  prophetic  or  present,  of  Miss  Slopham's  exist- 


POOR   OGLA-MOGA.  101 

ence,  when  that  lady  discovered  him,  and  when 
that  happened  she  exclaimed  :  "'He  is  mine  !'' 
Hers,  she  meant,  for  the  purposes  of  philan 
thropy.  Wicked  tongues  had  suggested  that  in 
Miss  Slopham's  philanthropy  distance  lent  enchant 
ment  to  the  view. 

Only  a  day  or  two  later,  and  before  she  had  had 
time  to  form  any  plans,  the  postman  brought  a 
letter  with  the  postmark  of  St.  Louis.  It  read  as 
follows  : 

"ST.  Louis,  Octobers,  1881. 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  SLOPHAM, — I  want  to  make  an 
appeal  to  your  benevolence,  which  I  know  never 
fails  in  case  of  need.  There  is  in  this  city  at  this 
moment,  in  hiding,  at  the  house  of  one  of  our 
friends,  a  poor  persecuted  Kickapoo.  A  Kickapoo 
is  an  Indian,  you  know.  He  has  fled  from  his 
reservation  because,  he  says,  he  cannot  endure  any 
longer  the  persecutions  and  wrongs  he  has  received 
at  the  hands  of  the  agent  who  has  charge  of  the 
tribe.  This  agent  must  be  a  very  bad  man.  Poor 
Ogla-Moga — that  is  his  name  ;  it  means  Young- 
man-  who-digs-up-seed-potatoes-and-feeds-them- to- 
his-pony,  he  says,  but  we  call  him  by  his  Indian  name 
because  it's  so  much  prettier — says  that  this  agent 
has  repeatedly  refused  to  let  them  go  hunting, 
which  is  the  only  amusement  the  poor  things  have, 
on  the  miserable  pretext  that  the  hay  must  be  got 
in  ;  and  he  once  took  away  the  gun  of  one  of  the 
Kickapoos  because  he  pretended  to  believe  that  the 
man  had  shot  a  settler,  whereas  there  was  no  proof 


102  POOR    OGLA-MOGA. 

of  it  at  all,  except,  Ogla-Moga  says,  that  the  man 
died  soon  after  the  gun  went  off.  Ogla-Moga  says 
nothing  wounds  the  self-respect  of  an  Indian  so 
deeply  as  to  take  his  gun  away  from  him,  and  we 
have  all  felt  a  great  deal  of  sympathy  with  that 
poor  insulted  Kickapoo.  Isn't  it  a  shame  that  a 
great  government  should  deliberately  and  mali 
ciously  oppress  these  unfortunate  and  high-spirited 
people  ? 

"  But  I  had  almost  forgotten  what  it  was  that  I 
had  to  ask.  Poor  dear  Ogla-Moga — he  is  so  quiet 
and  gentle  and  sad  that  we  have  all  really  grown 
fond  of  him — says  that  it  won't  be  safe  for  him  to 
stay  here  :  the  officers  will  soon  be  after  him*  for 
having  left  his  reservation.  Now  we  have  arranged 
to  send  him  eastward  with  Mr.  Michst.  He  is  the 
new  lecturer  before  our  Ethical  Circle,  which  meets 
every  Sunday  in  Azure  Hall.  I  read  a  paper  there 
last  Sunday,  called,  '  Is  there  Anything  ? '  which 
Mr.  Michst  says  contains  the  most  triumphant 
series  of  negations  he  ever  heard.  He  says  I  com 
pletely  disprove  the  existence  of  everything,  includ 
ing  many  things  we  all  know  to  be  true.  My 
friends  in  the  Circle  are  begging  me  to  publish  it, 
and  I  think  of  doing  so,  under  the  title  of  '  The 
Everlasting  No  Indeed.' 

"  But  I  am  wandering  again.  When  Mr.  Michst 
brings  Ogla-Moga  to  you,  can't  you  get  him 
shelter  somewhere?  Mr.  Michst  thinks  of  taking 
him  on  to  Washington,. so  that  he  may  lay  the 
whole  matter  before  the  President.  We  have 


POOR   OGLA-MOGA.  103 

all  been  studying  this  Indian  question  for  the 
last  ten  days,  and  we  are  convinced  that  the 
whole  trouble  is  that  the  President  doesn't  un 
derstand  it.  Mr.  Michst  feels  sure  that  if  the 
President  will  give  him,  say,  three  days  of  his 
time,  he  can  make  it  perfectly  clear  to  him. 
Please  answer  by  telegraph. 
"  Your  friend, 

"  CLARA  O.  VERRAUGHT." 

Now  Miss  Slopham  lived  in  a  neat  and  aesthetic 
apartment  in  a  fashionable  apartment-house,  and 
it  might  have  been  supposed  that  she  was  hardly 
prepared  to  set  up  an  asylum  for  fugitive  Kicka- 
poos.  But  that  intrepid  woman  never  faltered. 
Her  answer  went  whirling  by  wire  before  she  had 
paused  to  think  of  the  ways  and  means  of  caring 
for  poor  Ogla-Moga. 

"  October   23. 
' '  Miss  Clara  O.  Verraught,  St.  Louis,  Missouri : 

"  Let  him  come  at  once,  and  send  his  Indian 
costumes  with  him.  I  have  a  special  reason  for 
this  request.  AMELIA  SLOPHAM." 

Miss  Slopham  formed  a  plan.  What  it  was  will 
presently  appear. 


104  POOR   OGLA-MOGA. 


II. 


NOT  many  mornings  after,  there  was  the  sound 
of  a  strange  footstep  in  Miss  Slopham's  kitchen, 
and  Bridget  emitted  a  half-shriek.  "  Mither  of 
Moses!  what's  that?"  It  was  Ogla-Moga,  who 
had  just  arrived.  His  costume  was  an  extraordi 
nary  mixture  of  blanket  and  trousers  and  coat, 
hardly  consistent  with  the  requirements  of  civiliza 
tion.  A  broad  slouched  hat  hid  his  coarse  black 
locks,  and  cast  a  friendly  shadow  over  his  piercing 
eyes  and  swarthy  face. 

"  Here,  Bridget,"  said  Miss  Slopham,  "  get  some 
breakfast  for  this  —  a  —  a  —  gentleman  at  once." 
Miss  Slopham  was  not  accustomed  to  meeting  In 
dians  in  a  social  way.  She  hardly  knew  whether 
to  call  him  chief  ;  she  thought  wildly  for  a  moment 
of  sheik  ;  but  compromised  upon  gentleman. 

To  Bridget's  astonishment,  her  mistress  hovered 
about  while  the  strange  dark  man  gobbled  his  food 
and  glared  upon  her  with  his  wild  eyes.  Still 
another  stranger  had  come  in  with  them;  but  this 
one  wore  the  garments  of  civilization  as  if  he  were 
used  to  them.  He  was  a  bald  young  man — in  fact, 
one  of  the  baldest  young  men  that  ever  was  seen. 
He  seemed  to  be  bald  all  over.  He  had  no  ascer- 
tainable  eyebrows,  or  eyelashes,  or  hair,  and  this, 
with  his  bright,  fresh  complexion  and  his  big  spec 
tacles,  gave  him  a  very  unworldly  appearance. 


POOR   OGLA-MOGA.  105 

"  Oh,  Miss  Slobham,"  he  said,  "  I  haf  been  so 
much  mofed  wid  de  story  of  dis  poor  Indian  !  He 
iss  a  shild  of  nature.  He  hass  been  so  quiet,  and 
so  goot,  and  so  sad  !  I  haf  talked  to  him  by  de 
hour,  and  he  hass  not  interroopted  me  vonce.  I 
haf  exblained  to  him  the  viewss  of  our  Ettical 
Surkle  upon  de  future  state,  and  he  hass  listened 
so  attentifely,  and  ven  I  haf  looked  at  him  I  haf 
found  dat  he  wass  asleep.  Oh,  his  sleep  wass  so 
benign  !  I  haf  vept  ;  I  could  not  hellp  it.  He  iss 
a  shild  of  nature  ;"  and  good  Mr.  Michst  wiped  a 
tear  from  his  eye. 

"  Good  !  good  !"  grunted  Ogla-Moga,  as  he  put 
a  block  of  beefsteak  in  his  mouth  without  the 
formality  of  a  fork. 

"  He  hass  eaten  all  de  vay  from  St.  Louis  to 
here,  and  he  never  seem  to  haf  enough,"  said 
Mr.  Michst,  in  awe,  looking  at  Ogla-Moga  very 
much  as  one  might  at  the  phenomenon  of  a  me 
nagerie. 

"  Poor  creatures  !  I've  often  heard  that  their 
supplies  were  sometimes  cut  off  for  months  at  a 
time.  I  suppose  this  is  a  case  of  that  kind.  Ogla- 
Moga,"  said  Miss  Slopham*  addressing  him  with 
her  most  reassuring  and  eleemosynary  smile, 
"  does  the  government  feed  you  often,  you — a — 
poor  Indians  ?" 

"  Not  had — what  you  call  it  ?— round  meal — no, 
square  meal,"  the  Indian  replied,  making  an  ex 
planatory  parallelogram  with  his  hands,  "  in  four 
moons." 


io6  POOR   OGLA-MOGA. 

tf  Moonss  ? — moonss  ?  What  does  he  mean  by 
moonss  ?" 

Before  the  lady  had  time  to  make  sure  of  her  own 
knowledge  on  the  subject,  Ogla-Moga  began  a  wild 
and  mysterious  pantomime,  which  caused  Bridget, 
who  had  her  eye  steadily  on  the  strange  monster, 
and  kept  close  to  the  window  as  an  avenue  of 
desperate  retreat,  to  exclaim  :  "  Mither  of  Moses  ! 
what's  the  baste  going  to  do?"  Ogla-Moga  was 
throwing  his  arm  up  in  the  air  with  a  fierce  swing, 
suddenly  crooking  his  elbow,  and  bringing  his 
closed  hand  to  his  mouth,  while  he  rolled  his  eyes 
around  the  room  with  a  melodramatic  ferocity, 
evidently  intended  to  convey  the  idea  of  extreme 
rapture. 

"  Poor  Ogla-Moga  !"  said  Miss  Slopham  ;  "he 
wants  something  to  drink.  Give  him  a  glass  of 
ice-water,  Bridget,  and  have  it  perfectly  clear.  It 
may  remind  him  of  the  water  he  used  to  drink 
from  the  brooks  of  his  far-off  forest  home  ;"  and 
here  Miss  Slopham,  in  her  turn,  wiped  a  tear  from 
her  eye.  Indeed,  the  crystal  particle  was  ap 
parently  so  surprised  to  find  itself  on  the  good 
lady's  cheek  that  it  seemed  to  disappear  of  its  own 
accord. 

Ogla-Moga  looked  at  the  innocent  glass  of 
Croton  that  was  handed  him  with  undisguised  dis 
dain  ;  but  he  swallowed  his  thoughts,  whatever  they 
were,  with  the  water,  and  signified  that  his  meal 
was  ended. 

And  now  for  the  first  time  the  extent  of  the  task 


POOR    OGLA-MOGA.  107 

she  had  undertaken  became  apparent  to  Miss  Slop- 
ham.  What  was  to  be  done  with  this  terrible  in 
fant  from  the  prairies  during  the  week  of  seclusion 
that  her  plan  made  necessary?  She  lived  alone, 
except  for  the  companionship  of  Bridget,  and  it 
was  asking  a  good  deal  of  a  timid  and  shrinking 
nature  like  Miss  Slopham's  to  take  into  her  little 
household  a  gentleman  who  rolled  his  eyes  in  such 
an  alarming  manner.  Then,  too,  there  were  the 
proprieties,  against  which  sins  could  not  be  com 
mitted  even  in  the  name  of  reform.  Yet  what  else 
was  there  to  be  done  ?  He*  could  not  be  sent  to  a 
hotel  :  that  meant  publicity,  and  perhaps  recapture 
by  the  emissaries  of  a  cruel  and  unsympathetic 
government.  She  could  not  ask  a  friend  to  take 
him  in.  He  could  not  be  sent  anywhere  without 
danger.  Finally  a  brilliant  thought  struck  her 
just  as  she  was  on  the  verge  of  distraction,  with 
Ogla-Moga's  big  eyes  fastened  on  her  all  the  while. 
There  was  the  janitor  of  the  apartment-house.  He 
might  easily  be  induced  to  take  a  boarder,  and  he 
would  be  discreet.  Ogla-Moga  could  be  kept  in 
retirement  in  his  rooms.  She  would  act  at  once 
upon  the  idea.  And  yet  what  was  she  to  say  ? 
How  was  she  to  account  for  the  presence  of  this 
stranger  in  her  little  household  ?  Ah  !  he  needed 
clothes.  His  present  costume  was  an  impossible 
one.  She  would  begin  with  this  subject  with  the 
janitor's  wife,  and  feel  her  way  gradually.  So  she 
made  her  way  to  the  top  of  the  house. 

It  would  be  hard  to  say  who  was  in  the  greatest 


io8  POOR   OGLA-MOGA. 

flutter  when  the  janitor's  door  was  opened  upon 
her,  Miss  Slopham,  whose  maiden  bosom  was 
agitated  with  strange  embarrassments,  or  Mrs. 
Doherty,  who  was  not  accustomed  to  receive  calls 
from  the  ladies  of  the  house.  The  former  was  so 
confused  that  she  walked  against  a  chair  and 
knocked  it  over,  gave  a  little  scream,  and  stepped 
on  the  baby,  which  was  sprawling  on  the  floor, 
whereat  the  baby  screamed,  and  she  screamed,  and 
Mrs.  Doherty  screamed — all  of  which  did  not  tend 
to  diminish  the  mental  excitement  of  either  of  the 
ladies,  especially  as  Mrs.  Doherty  had  up  to  that 
moment  been  trying  to  dust  off  a  chair  with  one 
hand  while  she  held  another  baby  with  the  other 
arm,  and  motioned  with  her  head  to  a  little  girl — 
or  perhaps  she  ought  to  be  called  a  baby — who  had 
charge  of  still  two  other  babies,  to  take  them  out 
of  the  room.  Poor  Miss  Slopham  thought  she  had 
never  seen  so  many  babies  in  her  life  before,  and 
the  spectacle  somehow  only  increased  her  be 
wilderment.  So  perhaps  it  was  not  to  be  won 
dered  at  that  when  she  had  sunk  into  a  chair  she 
should  begin  the  conversation  with  the  extraordi 
nary  and  utterly  unprecedented  question  : 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Doherty,  could  you — a— could  you — 
a — lend  me — a — a  pair  of  pantaloons  ?" 

"  A  pair  of  what,  Miss  Slopham  ?"  said  the 
astounded  Mrs.  Doherty,  in  a  low  voice  which  ex 
pressed  both  the  proper  deference  of  the  janitor's 
wife  and  the  natural  amazement  of  the  woman. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I — I  didn't  mean  to  say  that," 


POOR    OGLA-MOGA.  109 

poor  Miss  Slopham  stammered,  in  hopeless  em 
barrassment.  "  The  fact  is,  there's  a  gentleman 
down  stairs — a  friend  of  mine,  you  know — he  has 
no  home,  and  very  few  clothes — and  I  want  to  get 
you  to  help  me.  He's  down  stairs  now,  and  he's 
going  to  stay — I  don't  see  how  I  am  going  to  help 
it — and  I  must  get  a  suit  of  clothes  for  him  this 
afternoon.  I  suppose  you  think  this  is  all  very 
queer,"  said  the  poor  lady  in  breathless  confusion, 
with  a  little  nervous  laugh,  thinking  to  herself  at 
the  same  time  that  it  certainly  was  very  queer. 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  I  understand  ye, 
ma'am,"  said  the  bewildered  woman,  looking  about 
her  in  an  alarmed  sort  of  way,  as  if  she  wondered 
whether  Miss  Slopham  was  quite  a  safe  woman  to 
be  alone  with. 

"Oh,  how  can  I  explain  it?"  that  lady  cried, 
desperately.  "  Well,"  she  said,  drawing  a  long 
breath,  "  let's  begin  at  the  beginning.  Of  course 
you  understand  that  I  don't  want  any  such  clothes 
for  myself  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  suppose  not,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Doherty,  evidently  suspecting  that  the  other  was 
slightly  insane. 

"  Well,  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  them,  because 
I  thought  your  husband  might  have  some  clothes 
he  did  not  want.  I'd  pay  him  a  good  price  for 
them,  and  they  needn't  be  very  good  " — and  again 
Miss  Slopham  struck  that  terrible  snag  of  the  con 
versation — "  I  want  them  for  a  gentleman  who's 
got  into  trouble  ;  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  is,  but 


no  POOR   OGLA-MOGA. 

he's  got  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  people.  And 
the  thing  I  wanted  to  ask  you  most,  Mrs.  Doherty," 
she  said,  in  a  pleading  voice,  conscious  that  she 
was  twisting  it  all  into  a  sad  snarl,  "  was  whether 
I  couldn't  get  you  and  Mr.  Doherty  to  take  him  to 
board  up  here  with  you  for  a  while,"  and  here  the 
good  lady  sighed  a  sigh  of  relief  in  spite  of  her 
misery  and  confusion.  She  had  at  last  let  the  cat 
out  of  the  bag. 

Mrs.  Doherty's  eyes  were  growing  very  large. 
The  man  needed  new  clothes  ;  must  have  them 
that  afternoon  ;  there  was  a  reason  for  his  keeping 
out  of  the  way  ;  Miss  Slopham  would  not  tell  what 
it  was  ;  the  man  had  got  into  trouble.  The  idea 
grew  bigger  and  bigger  in  Mrs.  Doherty's  mind, 
until  at  last  it  burst  out  with, 

"  But  is  it  a  jail-bird  ye've  got  there,  ma'am  ?" 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Miss  Slopham,  badly  fright 
ened  in  her  turn  at  the  other's  fear.  "  How  could 
you  think  such  a  thing  ?  He's  a  gentleman,  you 
know  ;  quite  an  important  man  where  he  comes 
from.  There  are  reasons  why  I  can't  tell  you  who 
he  is.  He  doesn't  want  anybody  to  know  it  either. 
But  a  jail-bird  !  why,  wait  till  you  see  him,  Mrs. 
Doherty.  He  looks  so  gentle,  and  he's  really 
handsome." 

Mrs.  Doherty  looked  at  Miss  Slopham.  Miss 
Slopham  was  a  wealthy  tenant,  and  paid  a  large 
rent,  and  Mrs.  Doherty  was  only  the  janitor's  wife. 
But,  after  all,  Mrs.  Doherty  was  a  woman,  and 
Miss  Slopham  was  a  woman  also,  and  Mrs.  Do- 


POOR    OGLA-MOGA.  ill 

herty  looked  at  Miss  Slopham  in  the  way  in  which 
only  a  woman  can  look  at  another  woman  ;  looked 
at  her  gray  and  withered  curls,  and  at  her  face, 
which  had  never,  in  the  spring-time  of  Miss  Slop- 
ham's  youth,  been  the  kind  of  face  which  painters 
celebrate  and  poets  embalm  in  verse,  and  said 
nothing.  What  she  may  have  thought,  or  whether 
she  thought  anything,  was  a  matter  of  little  con 
sequence,  for  when  the  richer  lad)r  came  to  men 
tion  the  terms  at  which  she  rated  the  hospitality  of 
the  Doherty  household,  Mrs.  Doherty  showed  a 
positive  anxiety  to  oblige  her,  and  even  murmured 
something  about  being  glad  to  do  anything  in 
their  power  for  such  a  kind  lady. 

Now  began  a  week  of  agony  for  Miss  Slopham. 
Ogla-Moga  was  duly  installed  in  the  Doherty 
apartment,  and  duly  invested  with  a  suit  of  Mr. 
Doherty's  clothes.  But  the  taste  for  roving  was 
still  strong  upon  him.  The  inner  life  of  an  apart 
ment-house  seemed  to  arouse  all  his  savage  curi 
osity,  and  the  fact  that  the  entrance  to  every  apart 
ment  looked  like  the  entrance  to  every  other 
apartment  gave  rise  to  some  disagreeable  compli 
cations.  In  the  second  floor  front,  for  example,  a 
skirmish  with  a  view  to  matrimony  had  long  been 
in  progress  between  the  daughter  of  the  family, 
Miss  Josephine  Ayr,  and  Mr.  Margent,  of  the  young 
and  prosperous  stock-broking  firm  of  Margent  & 
Bar,  and  the  decisive  engagement  was  plainly  near 
at  hand.  The  progress  of  the  acquaintanceship 
had  been  watched  with  an  interest  not  altogether 


H2  POOR    OGLA-MOGA, 

friendly  by  the  second  floor  back,  while  Miss  Slop- 
ham  had  deigned  to  catch  such  neutral  and  impar 
tial  glimpses  of  it  as  she  could  over  the  stairs  from 
the  third  floor  front.  In  fact,  the  second  floor 
back,  who  bore  the  name  of  Pound,  had  in  an  un 
guarded  moment  introduced  Mr.  Margent  to  the 
second  floor  front,  and  had  then  in  silent  rage  seen 
him  borne  away  from  them  by  Miss  Josephine. 
Perhaps  this  was  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact 
that  the  two  marriageable  daughters  in  the  second 
floor  back  had  been  offered,  to  use  the  coarse  ex 
pression  of  the  young  stock-broker,  "  with  no 
takers"  fora  series  of  years,  and  perhaps  by  the 
bold  and  shocking  manners  of  Miss  Josephine, 
which  were  often  the  subject  of  remark  in  the 
Pound  household,  where  the  opinion  was  fre 
quently  heard  that  it  was  difficult  to  understand 
how  old  Mrs.  Ayr  could  keep  so  cheerful  with  a 
daughter  whose  behavior  was  the  scandal  of  all  her 
acquaintances.  By  one  of  those  unaccountable 
coincidences  which  will  occur  in  apartment-houses, 
the  remarks  of  the  Ayrs  about  the  Pounds  were 
repeated  to  the  Pounds,  while  at  the  same  time  the 
remarks  of  the  Pounds  about  the  Ayrs  were  repeated 
to  the  Ayrs,  the  result  being  that  Miss  Josephine 
said  that  it  must  be  a  great  satisfaction  to  Mrs. 
Pound  to  feel  that  she  would  probably  always  have 
her  daughters  with  her,  especially  as  they  were 
already  of  an  age  to  have  many  tastes  in  common 
with  her,  and  the  Misses  Pound  said  that  it  was 
truly  painful  to  see  people  who  had  once  been  very 


POOR    OCLA-MOGA.  113 

wealthy  reduced  in  circumstances,  like  the  Ayrs, 
for  example,  and  that  both  families  were  carefully 
polite  when  they  met. 

Now  Mr.  Margent  was  thought  to  be  on  the 
point  of  declaring  himself,  and  when  he  appeared 
one  afternoon  his  intentions  were  obvious.  He 
was,  if  possible,  more  scrupulously  dressed  than 
ever.  His  clothes,  trimly  cut  in  the  latest  style, 
were  new  and  spotless.  His  plump,  not  to  say 
puffy,  face,  of  an  overfed  white,  was  as  smooth- 
shaven  as  ever.  His  plentiful  watch-chain  and  his 
elegant  shoes  and  his  expensive  stockings  were,  if 
possible,  more  plentiful  and  elegant  and  expensive 
than  ever.  When  Miss  Josephine  appeared  in  a 
fresh  costume,  his  small  gray  eyes  revolved  about 
her  with  an  appearance  of  sluggish  satisfaction 
which  for  him  was  almost  animation. 

"  Business,"  said  he — "  business  's  been  splendid 
this  year.  Tip-top.  C.  B.  &  Q.  brought  us  in  ten 
thousand  at  one  clip  the  other  day.  Fact  ;"  and 
Mr.  Margent  paused  for  a  fresh  supply  of  ideas. 

"  How  nice  that  is  !"  said  Miss  Josephine, 
gently,  with  a  shade  of  tender  appreciation  in  her 
voice. 

"  But  it  costs  a  dreadful  deal  to  live.  We  all 
Jive  at  hotels,  you  know — all  the  boys.  And  then 
a  fellow  has  to  have  his  cab  :  all  the  boys  have 
cabs.  And  then  we've  got  to  have  clothes.  But 
I'm  economizing  on  that.  I  cut  myself  down  to 
twenty  suits  last  year.  I  don't  see  any  use  of  a 
fellow's  having  more  than  twenty  suits  ;"  and 


H4  POOR    OGLA-MOGA, 

Mr.  Margent  paused  again,  intellectually  out  of 
breath. 

"  I  think  you're  a  very  extravagant  creature/' 
said  the  charming  Miss  Josephine,  playfully  shak 
ing  her  finger  at  him.  "  If  you  had  a  wife  to  take 
care  of  you,  you  wouldn't  be  allowed  to  spend  so 
much  money."  "  Well,  do  you  know,  I've  been 
thinking  of  getting  married.  I  was  talking  with 
the  boys  about  it  the  other  day.  I  said  I  believed 
a  man  could  support  a  wife  on  seven  thousand  a 
year— keeping  a  fellow's  cab,  and  staying  at  the 
hotel,  you  know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing" — he 
hastened  to  add,  with  a  little  anxiety  in  his  voice. 
"  The  boys  bet  I  couldn't,  and  I  bet  I  could,  and  I 
believe  it  was  then  that  I  really  made  up  my  mind 
to  get  married.  Don't  you  believe  it  could  be 
done  on  that?"  Mr.  Margent  found  himself  the 
subject  of  a  suffusion  of  ideas,  and  had  the  appear 
ance  of  being  surprised  at  his  own  gifts. 

Miss  Josephine  was  of  the  opinion,  in  a  low 
voice,  and  with  an  expression  of  intense  interest  in 
the  lace  in  her  sleeve,  that  it  could  be  done  for 
that. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  the  ardent  youth,  moving 
over  to  the  sofa  where  she  was  sitting,  and  set 
tling  himself  down  beside  her,  "  why  shouldn't  we 
get  married  ?  You're  just  the  kind  of  girl  I  like — 
tip-top,  you  know.  I  like  a  girl  with  style  about 
her.  Come,  say  yes."  And  here  the  crude  out 
lines  of  something  like  a  joke,  for  the  first  time  in 
Mr.  Margent's  history,  began  to  be  visible  to  him 


POOR    OGLA-MOGA.  115 

in  the  dim  recesses  of  his  obese  mind.  "  Let's 
make  it  buyer  sixty  days,"  and  he  laughed  until 
his  small  eyes  almost  closed. 

"  And  what's  buyer  sixty  days,  you  horrid 
man  ?" 

"Why,  don't  you  know  that?  I  should  have 
thought  you'd  know  that.  It's  when  the  buyer 
has  sixty  days  to  call  for  the  stock.  Let's  get 
married  in  sixty  days,  and  we'll  invite  all  the 
boys." 

Poor  Miss  Josephine  !  Was  this  her  romance  ? 
She  had  not  counted  on  much — but  was  this  all  ? 
She  was  a  sensible  and  practical  girl,  however,  and 
the  instructions  of  an  excellent  mother  had  not 
been  lost  upon  her.  She  yielded  herself  to  the 
embrace  of  this  winsome  wooer,  her  head  drooped 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  he  was  just  about  to  collect 
the  dividend  of  a  kiss,  when  the  hall  door  swung 
open  with  a  crash,  and  no  other  than  Ogla-Moga 
plunged  into  the  room,  with  a  bundle  intended  for 
Miss  Slopham.  It  was  Ogla-Moga's  unfortunate 
peculiarity  that  all  floors  were  alike  to  him,  and 
likewise  all  interiors.  He  stood  in  the  dark  hall 
way  glaring  with  amazement  upon  the  bewildered 
couple.  Miss  Josephine  screamed,  and  Mr.  Mar- 
gent  swore  with  actual  animation.  Ogla-Moga 
grew  still  more  excited.  He  had  learned  enough 
of  civilized  life  to  know  that  strangers  and  in 
truders  were  objects  of  suspicion. 

"  G'out  !  g'out  !"  he  roared,  with  his  voice  at 
prairie  pitch.  "  G'out  !  or  I  put  you  out  !" 


n6  POOR   OGLA-MOGA. 

Miss  Josephine  screamed  again  ;  her  estimable 
mother  rushed  in  by  the  door  leading  to  the  bed 
rooms,  followed  by  three  children,  all  beside  them 
selves  with  curiosity  and  wonder,  and  Mr.  Ayr 
himself  appeared  in  the  doorway  leading  to  the 
dining-room,  in  a  state  of  respectable  consterna 
tion  ;  and  last  of  all  appeared  the  heads  of  the  two 
Misses  Pound  in  the  hallway  outside,  uttering 
simultaneously,  with  many  deprecatory  little  bobs, 
the  same  words,  to  the  effect  that  they  thought 
perhaps  some  one  was  hurt,  all  of  which  only  in 
creased  the  wrath  of  Ogla-Moga,  more  than  ever 
convinced  that  something  was  wrong. 

'  You  no  belong  here  !"  he  cried,  swinging  his 
arms  wildly  about.  ;<  This  wigwam  belongs  gray 
squaw  !" 

Miss  Josephine  always  persisted  in  believing  that 
Ogla-Moga  had  first  gone  to  the  Pound  door,  and 
that  the  Misses  Pound,  who  knew  only  too  well  that 
Mr.  Margent  was  calling  upon  her,  had  sent  him 
to  the  other.  But  if  it  were  true,  she  had  a  real 
woman's  revenge.  She  had  no  sooner  descried 
them  in  the  doorway  than  with  wonderful  presence 
of  mind  she  fainted  straight  into  Mr.  Margent's 
arms,  much  to  that  gentleman's  astonishment.  It 
was  a  master-stroke.  The  Misses  Pound  disap 
peared  as  suddenly  as  if  they  had  been  pictures 
from  a  magic  lantern,  and  had  been  slid  off  the 
screen.  Mrs.  Ayr  at  once  looked  more  cheerful, 
and  Mr.  Ayr  began  an  insane  effort  to  remove  Ogla- 
Moga  from  the  premises,  in  which  it  would  have 


POOR    OGLA-MOGA.  117 

gone  ill  with  him  had  it  not  been  for  a  sudden 
vision  of  curl-papers  and  gray  hair  behind  the 
Indian.  His  name  was  called  in  a  voice  he  was 
accustomed  to  hear,  he  turned  away,  the  door 
was  banged  to  upon  his  heels,  and  the  tableau 
closed. 

The  very  next  day  Mrs.  Gottom  of  the  third  floor 
back  was  to  give  a  dinner  party  to  the  distinguished 
Italian  musician,  Signor  Barbazzo.  Mrs.  Gottom 
was  known  among  the  irreverent  young  men  of  her 
acquaintance  as  lt  the  menagerie  woman."  Her 
favorite  exclamation  was,  "  I  must  have  a  fresh 
lion,"  and  visitors  to  her  apartment  were  always 
sure  of  beholding  the  latest  leonine  specimens 
landed  on  these  shores.  Signor  Barbazzo's  fresh 
ness  made  him  a  rarus  leo.  He  was  famous,  and 
all  the  world  was  waiting  for  him,  but  he  had  not 
yet  appeared  in  public.  As  a  cruel  fate  would 
have  it,  Mrs.  Gottom  fell  sick  the  very  day  set  for 
the  dinner,  and  was  compelled  to  resign  her  place 
as  hostess  to  her  pretty  and  simple-hearted  niece, 
Miss  Tristan,  who  had  never  seen  Signor  Bar 
bazzo.  As  fate  would  also  have  it,  that  gentleman 
himself  fell  sick,  and  being  in  the  habit  of  doing  as 
he  pleased  among  the  barbarians  of  the  West,  sent 
no  excuses.  As  fate  would  still  have  it,  Ogla- 
Moga,  taking  the  wrong  door  as  usual,  strolled 
into  Mrs.  Gottom' s  drawing-room,  which  happened 
to  be  empty,  about  an  hour  before  dinner,  settled 
himself  in  a  luxurious  arm-chair  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  .and — fell  asleep.  Half  an  hour  later, 


nS  POOR    OGLA-MOGA. 

pretty  Miss  Tristan  came  rustling  into  the  room 
with  her  coolest  and  sweetest  dress  on.  She  gave 
a  start  of  surprise  when  she  saw  a  man  there, 
stepped  forward,  thinking  that  it  was  the  distin 
guished  guest  himself,  stopped  again,  seeing  that 
he  was  fast  asleep,  and  then  taking  a  swift  woman's 
glance  at  him,  sped  softly  out  of  the  room. 

"  Aunty,  what  do  you  think  ?"  said  she,  breath 
lessly,  running  into  that  lady's  room.  "  Signer 
Barbazzo  is  in  the  parlor,  sound  asleep  in  the  big 
chair!" 

"  What  are  you  saying,  child  ?  Signor  Bar 
bazzo  in  the  parlor  asleep  !  Nonsense  !" 

"  But  it  must  be  he.  Who  else  can  it  be  ?  Hasn't 
he  got  long  black  hair  ?" 

"  Yes.  And  no  beard  or  mustache  ?  and  a 
swarthy  complexion  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  Well,"  said  the  aunt,  wearily,  "  I  suppose  he 
has  come  in  tired.  Doing  what  he  pleases,  as  they 
all  do.  But  he  mustn't  be  disturbed,  on  any 
account.  I  wish  I  was  there  to  manage  him.  The 
other  day  at  Mrs.  Vicar's  he  went  away  in  the 
middle  of  the  dinner  because  the  macaroni  wasn't 
right.  He'll  do  something  dreadful,  I  suppose. 
Now  be  sure.  Don't  begin  by  making  him  cross. 
So  if  he  should  sleep  an  hour,  keep  the  people 
quiet  at  all  hazards,  and  let  him  sleep  two  hours  if 
he  wants  to." 

Poor  Miss  Tristan  went  back  to  the  post  of  duty 
oppressed  with  a  great  responsibility.  The  servrant 


POOR    OGLA-MOGA.  119 

was  stationed  at  the  door  to  prevent  any  ringing  of 
the  bell,  and  as  the  guests  came  in  one  by  one, 
they  were  warned  in  whispers  not  to  rouse  the 
sleeping  lion.  Very  soon  Mrs.  Gottom's  .drawing- 
room  presented  a  striking  example  of  the  homage 
due  to  genius.  The  guests  stood  about  in  little 
groups,  conversing  in  the  most  timid  whispers,  and 
even  making  signs  take  the  place  of  language, 
glancing  every  moment  at  the  supposed  great  man 
in  the  chair,  who  had  his  legs  stretched  out  before 
him,  his  head  thrown  back,  and  was,  if  it  must  be 
confessed,  snoring  audibly,  not  to  say  visibly. 
There  was  Professor  Phyle,  the  celebrated  phrenol 
ogist — a  tall  man,  with  a  gaunt  face  and  long  gray 
hair.  He  had  been  a  lion  once,  but  was  now  out 
of  date.  There  were  also  present  Mrs.  Blenkin,  a 
comparatively  new  soprano,  having  seen  only  two 
seasons  ;  Lieutenant  Wray,  a  lion  just  caught,  or 
rather  polar  bear,  having  only  then  returned  from 
a  trip  to  the  arctic  regions,  in  which  his  ship  had 
covered  itself  with  glory  ;  a  young  lady  who  had 
written  a  novel,  and  another  who  had  written  a 
poem,  both  unpublished,  but  both  understood  to  be 
of  a  mysterious  excellence  ;  and  others  not  neces 
sary  to  mention.  Even  for  these  great  people  the 
chance  to  see  a  genius  off  his  guard  was  not  to  be 
resisted.  He  seemed  to  be  so  soundly  asleep  that 
they  might  safely  approach  him.  They  tiptoed 
toward  him,  and  hovered  about  him,  holding  their 
breath  meanwhile.  The  ladies  gazed  at  him 
longest,  and  seemed  best  satisfied  with  their  in- 


120  POOR    OGLA-MOGA.      , 

spection,  with   the   exception   of    Professor  Phyle, 
-who  was  in  raptures. 

"  I  have  never,"  said  he,  in  a  blood-curdling 
whisper,  and  waving  his  hand  toward  the  uncon 
scious  Ogla-Moga,  while  the  guests  gathered  about 
to  hear  what  his  verdict  would  be,  "  seen  a  more 
distinctly  musical  face.  It  is  remarkable.  It 
ought  to  convert  any  skeptic  to  phrenology.  The 
development  of  what  we  phrenologists  call,  for 
the  sake  of  convenience,  the  organs  of  tune  and 
time — just  over  and  near  the  side  of  the  eye — the 
fulness  of  the  eyes,  the  exquisite  mobility  of  the 
mouth,  are  fairly  abno-or-r-mal,"  and  here  the 
learned  professor's  whisper  made  one's  flesh  creep. 
1 '  And  I  have  no  doubt,  if  I  could  examine  the  organs 
which  are  concealed  by  those  luxuriant  locks" — 
and  now  the  professor  smiled  his  society  smile,  and 
his  fingers  rayed  out  toward  the  sleeping  Indian's 
head  in  a  nervous,  eager  way — "  that  I  should  find 
ideality,  adhesiveness,  time,  hope,  veneration,  and 
so  on,  strongly  developed,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
great  composers."  The  ladies  nodded  at  each 
other,  and  drew  long  breaths  of  astonishment. 

"  I  am  glad,"  continued  the  professor,  in  his 
most  approving  manner,  "  that  this  little  social  in 
cident" — but  now  the  smile  was  more  labored,  and 
his  eyebrows  went  up  with  less  ease  than  usual, 
for,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  professor,  like  the  rest 
of  the  company,  was  getting  a  little  hungry — 
"  should  have  given  us  an  opportunity  to  make  a 
scientific  proof  of  his  great  genius." 


POOR    OGLA-MOGA.  121 

Meanwhile  the  lieutenant,  who  was  a  practical 
person,  if  he  was  a  lion,  bent  toward  the  still 
snoring  Ogla-Moga  with  his  eyeglass. 

"  It's  a  singular  thing,"  said  he,  coming  back, 
*'  but  the  face  doesn't  seem  at  all  Italian  to  me. 
It's  more  like  an  Indian's  face  than  that  of  any 
civilized  man  I  ever  saw." 

There  was  an  indignant  whisper  of  dissent  all 
about. 

"  How  can  you  say  so  ?"  responded  the  professor. 
"  There  are  centuries  of  culture  and  refinement 
in  that  face — the  stern  old  Roman  cast  softened 
and  modified  by  generation  after  generation  of  the 
artistic  training  and  cultivation  of  modern  Italy. 
I  would  venture  to  assert  from  this  mere  glance  at 
his  face  that  his  fathers  before  him  for  a  long  way 
back  were  musicians,  and  I  would  pick  him  out 
from  a  crowd  on  Broadway  as  a  genius  in  music. 
Why,"  said  the  professor,  with  as  much  of  a 
flourish  as  he  could  get  into  a  whisper,  "  his  very 
nostrils  convict  him." 

It  must  be  said  that  at  that  particular  moment 
Ogla-Moga' s  nostrils  were  convicting  him  of  a 
genius  for  music  of  a  most  discordant  kind.  He 
was  snoring  a  profound  snore  whose  chords  could 
not  be  found  in  Beethoven  or  Rossini,  nor  even  in 
Liszt  or  Wagner.  Just  as  the  professor  finished 
his  eulogy,  there  came  a  terrific  rumble  and  rattle, 
and  the  Indian  snored  so  loud  that  he  fairly  woke 
himself  up.  He  raised  himself  up  in  the  chair  and 
looked  about  in  speechless  amazement.  No  one 


122  POOR   OGLA-MOGA. 

spoke.  All  were  waiting,  with  the  deference  due 
to  genius,  to  see  what  the  great  man  would  do,  and 
were,  at  the  same  time,  if  it  must  be  confessed,  a 
little  overcome  with  the  novelty  of  the  situation. 
His  black  eye  ran  quickly  from  one  to  the  other, 
when  it  fell  upon  the  uniform  of  Lieutenant  Wray, 
assumed  on  that  occasion  by  the  express  wish  of 
his  hostess.  At  that  sight,  which  must  have  re 
called  to  Ogla-Moga's  mind  the  power  and  author 
ity  of  the  Government  of  the  United  States,  a  look 
of  terror  blanched  his  face,  and  darting  up,  he  fled 
through  the  open  door  into  the  hall,  and  disap 
peared,  leaving  behind  him  the  impression  that  the 
eccentricity  of  distinguished  Italian  musicians  is 
past  finding  out. 


III. 


OF  many  other  of  the  deeds  of  Ogla-Moga — of 
how  he  imprisoned  three  estimable  old  ladies  in  the 
elevator,  and  before  they  were  released  had  fright 
ened  them  into  hysterics  ;  of  how  he  at  first  took 
the  milkman  to  be  a  brother  Indian,  and  regularly 
for  a  time  answered  his  morning  howl  with  a  terri 
fying  war-whoop  ;  of  how  he  kept  the  house  in 
turmoil  by  ringing  an  electric  bell  wherever  he 
could  find  one,  in  doing  which  he  took  a  childish 
delight — there  is  no  need  to  speak  here.  Happily 
for  Miss  Slopham,  it  so  came  about  that  Ogla- 
Moga  was  rescued  from  all  his  scrapes  without  the 


POOR    OGLA-MOGA.  123 

responsibility  for  him  being  traced  to  her,  and 
without  her  secret  being  discovered,  although 
many  complaints  poured  into  the  office  of  the  care 
lessness  by  which  strange  and  dreadful  men  were 
allowed  to  get  into  the  house — a  subject,  however, 
on  which  the  landlord  could  never  get  any  satis 
factory  information  from  Mr.  Doherty.  Happily 
for  Miss  Slopham  again,  the  week  of  trial  was 
almost  ended.  She  had  issued  invitations  to  a  re 
ception  for  a  Thursday  evening,  at  which  she 
caused  it  to  be  understood  a  paper  would  be  read 
upon  an  important  reform  question.  Many  of  her 
friends  in  the  apartment-house  were  included  in  the 
bidding  to  this  feast  of  reason.  The  evening  had 
arrived,  and  she  was  seated  in  her  reception-room, 
talking  to  the  first-comer — a  very  tall  and  grave 
gentleman  with  solemn  long  hair.  This  was  Mr. 
Blagg,  the  well-known  newspaper  correspondent. 
He  was  a  most  ingenious  and  laborious  writer. 
Having  accumulated  a  certain  amount  of  informa 
tion,  he  wrote  it  out  on  Monday  to  a  paper  in  the 
far  West,  and  on  Tuesday  to  another  paper  in  the 
far  East,  varying  the  mixture  somewhat,  and  on 
Wednesday  varying  it  again  to  a  paper  in  the 
North,  and  on  Thursday  to  a  paper  in  the  South, 
giving  the  kaleidoscope  of  gossip  still  another 
shake.  If  it  be  true  that  a  stamp  of  the  foot  dis 
places  every  atom  of  the  globe,  and  that  a  word, 
once  spoken,  never  ceases  to  reverberate  through 
the  universe,  the  intellectual  atmosphere  must  have 
been  disorganized  with  the  clash  and  confusion  of 


124  POOR   OGLA-MOGA. 

Mr.  Blagg's  contributions  to  contemporary  history. 
But  Mr.  Blagg  was  also  a  general  literary  work 
man.  He  took  contracts  to  write  articles,  pam 
phlets,  and  books,  as  a  lawyer  takes  cases — not  on 
their  merits,  but  for  the  fee.  If  it  must  be  ad 
mitted,  he  had  written  Miss  Slopham  s  paper  on 
the  wrongs  of  the  Indian,  for  a  pecuniary  compen 
sation,  for  that  lady  was  far  from  being  a  literary 
person. 

"  Oh,  it  is  so  strong,  Mr.  Blagg,"  she  was  say 
ing,  "  so  noble,  and  the  array  of  facts  is  §o  over 
whelming  !  Where  did  you  get  them  ?  Oh,  what 
a  power  your  pen  is  !" 

"  Such  as  it  is,  Miss  Slopham,  it  is  always  at 
your  service  ;"  and  Mr.  Blagg  closed  his  eyes  in  a 
faint  ecstasy.  Unlike  literary  persons  as  a  class, 
he  was  not  reluctant  to  be  openly  appreciated. 
"As  for  the  facts, "  he  continued,  "they  were 
easily  secured,  f  had  occasion  to  write  another 
article  on  the  Indian  question,  taking  an  exactly 
opposite  view,  and  I  found  that  many  of  the  facts, 
in  the  hands  of  a  skilful  artist,  could  be  used  in 
both  articles.  I  have  often  found  that  plan  bene 
ficial.  It  economizes  labor,  gives  exercise  to  all  the 
intellectual  faculties,  and,  where  one  can  secure 
orders  for  a  brace  of  documents  to  contradict  each 
other,  is,  I  may  say" — and  here  Mr.  Blagg  coughed 
a  little  cough — •"  pleasant  to  the  pocket." 

"  But  I  want  your  help  still  further,  dear  Mr. 
Blagg.  We  must  make  this  poor  Indian's  cause 
our  own.  We  must  agitate  the  matter.  I  hope 


POOR   OGLA-MOGA.  125 

that  when  this  paper  has  been  read  to-night"  (and 
Miss  Slopham  looked  down  at  the  roll  in  her  lap), 
"  you  will  be  willing  to  write  something  about  it 
to  your  papers.  I  want  the  influence  of  your  pen 
to  rouse  the  country." 

"  I'll  do  what  my  pen  enables  me  to  do,  Miss 
Slopham  ;  and  I  will  say  that  I  think  it  is  not  with 
out  its  effect,"  replied  Mr.  Blagg,  with  the  con 
scious  pride  of  a  man  who  knew  that  public  opinion 
would  never  get  itself  properly  moulded  without 
his  help. 

"  It  will  be  painful  for  us,  of  course,  to  be 
involved  in  anything  like  notoriety,  but"  (and 
now  a  shade  of  lofty  resignation  passed  over  the 
lady's  face),  "  we  must  bear  it  for  the  sake  of  the 
cause."  Miss  Slopham  already  called  it  "the 
cause." 

But  the  company,  had  begun  to  assemble.  Mr. 
Michst  was  there,  having  deprived  the  Ethical 
Circle  of  the  benefit  of  his  ministrations  for  an  entire 
week  in  order  to  be  present.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ayr 
were  there,  with  Miss  Josephine  and  her  lover,  who 
was  heard  to  remark  that  this  would  be  "  great 
larks  to  tell  the  boys."  The  Misses  Pound  were 
also  there,  conveying  in  their  looks  their  profound 
pity  for  a  young  man  so  sadly  insnared.  Mrs. 
Gottom  was  there,  with  her  pretty  niece,  who 
looked,  as  really  pretty  girls  always  do,  prettier 
than  ever.  Professor  Phyle  was  there,  and  Mrs. 
Blenkin.  But  Lieutenant  Wray  had  not  been  able 
to  accept  Miss  Slopham's  invitation.  There  were 


126  POOR    OGLA-MOGA. 

besides  a  considerable  number  of  persons  of  limited 
celebrity,  most  of  them  fierce  hobby  riders,  who, 
instead  of  leaving  those  unruly  animals  at  home  in 
their  luxurious  stalls,  or  outside  of  their  friends' 
houses,  as  the  instinct  of  politeness  might  have 
suggested,  rode  them  boldly  into  the  parlors  of  the 
best  society,  and  ran  them  at  full  gallop  into  the 
midst  of  any  conversation,  so  that  often  no  sound 
could  be  heard  but  the  noise  of  their  hoofs.  Of 
the  number  and  kind  of  these  hobbies  there  is  no 
need  here  to  speak,  but  when  there  were  so  many 
gathered  into  a  single  place,  the  neighing  and 
snorting,  the  champing  of  conversational  bits,  and 
the  pounding  of  huge  and  heavy  feet  were  curious 
to  behold  and  to  hear. 

And  Ogla  -  Moga  ?  Now  the  native  costumes 
were  coming  into  play,  and  Miss  Slopham's  long 
martyrdom  was  to  have  its  reward.  She  had  con 
veyed  to  the  Indian  her  desire  that  he  should  dis 
card  the  garments  of  civilization,  and  array  him 
self  in  those  of  his  pristine  barbarity.  Remember 
ing  also  that  an  Indian  toilet  is  not  complete  with 
out  a  good  deal  of  decorative  art,  she  lent  him  a 
collection  of  artists'  materials  kept  for  purposes  of 
aesthetic  display,  and  explained  to  him  how  to  use 
them.  The  result  was  that  when  he  emerged  he 
was  a  sight  to  strike  terror  into  any  heart.  His  robes 
became  him  fiercely,  and  the  blazonry  of  his  colors 
even  frightened  her  a  little.  She  began  to  won 
der  whether,  after  all,  Indian  reform  might  not  be 
a  dangerous  pursuit.  But  all  this  was  accom- 


POOR   OGLA-MOGA.  127 

plished,  in  her  haste,  three  hours  before  the  time  of 
the  reception.  What  was  to  be  done  with  him  in 
the  mean  time  ?  He  must  needs  sit  and  wait,  like 
the  ladies  in  the  olden  time  who  on  the  occasion  of 
some  great  fete  were  obliged,  through  the  multi 
plicity  of  the  hair-dresser's  engagements,  to  pass 
under  his  hands  early  in  the  morning,  perhaps,  and 
then  to  sit  like  statues  all  day  lest  the  lofty  and 
beautiful  structure  on  their  heads  should  tumble 
into  ruins.  But  how  restrain  him — this  untutored 
Kickapoo  ?  In  her  desperation  a  wild  and  wonder 
ful  scheme  occurred  to  her.  He  had  become 
savagely  fond  of  raspberry  jam.  She  would  offer 
him  a  bribe  of  an  unlimited  quantity  of  this  deli 
cacy  to  go  into  some  room  and  stay  there,  and 
once  there,  she  would  quietly  lock  the  door.  She 
canvassed  in  her  mind  all  the  rooms  in  her  little 
box  of  a  home.  There  was  one,  convenient,  ap 
propriate,  and  secure — the  store-room.  No  sooner 
said  than  done.  To  see  this  fierce-looking  Kicka 
poo  clad  in  robes  of  savagery,  and  gleaming  in  all 
the  paint  of  the  war-path,  seated  on  Miss  Slop- 
ham's  refrigerator,  and  looking  about  on  either 
side  with  barbaric  curiosity  at  her  array  of  shelves 
of  jars  and.  bottles,  while  he  ate  raspberry  jam  out 
of  a  rare  and  elegant  saucer  with  an  exquisite 
silver  spoon,  might  have  seemed  a  ludicrous 
spectacle  to  anybody  less  austere  than  Miss  Slop- 
ham.  But  she  only  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  and 
softly  turned  the  key,  and  went  away  to  prepare 
for  her  guests.  Ogla-Moga  did  not  miss  her.  He 


128  POOR   OGLA-MOGA. 

finished  the  saucer  of  jam,  and  finished  the  jar, 
and  then  began  explorations.  He  found  various 
relishes,  condiments,  and  preserves,  and  what  not, 
all  of  which  he  tasted,  some  of  which  he  enjoyed, 
and  some  of  which  he  seemed  to  objurgate  in 
choice  Kickapoo.  At  last — for  his  terrific  figure 
was  now  erect  on  the  refrigerator — he  saw  some 
thing  that  sent  a  gleam  of  joy  across  his  fiery  face. 
It  was  a  dark  bottle  that  bore  an  inscription  which 
he  could  not  read,  "  S.  O.  P.  Brandy."  But  there 
is  one  sense  which  needs  no  education.  He  pulled 
out  the  cork,  and  put  the  mouth  of  the  bottle  to 
his  nostrils  ;  then  he  smiled  grimly,  and  straight 
way  sat  down  on  the  refrigerator. 

The  time  had  arrived  for  Miss  Slopham  to  read 
her  paper.  Mr.  Michst  claimed  the  attention  of 
the  company  by  tapping  on  a  table  with  a  paper- 
knife.  "  Laties  and  shentlemen,"  said  he,  "  we 
haf  come  here  dis  efening  as  drue  philossophers — 
not  for  our  own  selfish  bleasure  enti-er-/^,  but"  — 
Mr.  Margent  looked  uneasy,  and  fidgeted  in  his 
chair — "  in  order  to  hellp  in  de  solution  of  one  of 
de  great  questions  of  de  day — de  Indian  question. 
I  haf  met  some  off  dese  obbressed  and  downdrod- 
den  beoble.  I  know  how  amiable,  how  excellent, 
they  are — like  little  shildren  dey  haf  lissened  to  me 
ven  I  haf  talked  to  dem  of  de  aura  of  Schrellen- 
bach  and  de  ofersoul — all  vunder,  and,  I  know,  all 
pelief.  But  I  vill  not  take  down  de  time.  My 
young  and  pyootiful  friend,  Miss  Slobham"  (the 
good,  loyal  man  was  sadly  near-sighted),  "  vill 


POOR   OGLA-MOGA.  129 

read  to  you,  and  I  belief  she  vill  have  some  derri- 
ble  dings  to  say." 

Terrible  things  indeed  !  Miss  Slopham's  manu 
script  ran  with  gore — the  gore  of  the  red-man 
always.  Massacres,  surprises,  and  butcheries,  in 
which  the  white  man  had  slaked,  only  to  renew  it, 
his  notorious  thirst  for  Indian  blood,  followed 
each  other  across  the  pages  of  the  paper,  leaving 
each  a  darkening  trail  behind.  The  government 
of  these  United  States,  which,  in  the  inconsistent, 
uncontinuous,  and  often  bungling  way  of  all  gov 
ernments,  has  probably  tried  to  do  its  duty  by  the 
Indian — often  succeeding  only  in  making  its  benev 
olence  a  source  of  pauperism,  and  often  betrayed 
by  unfaithful  officials  and  corrupt  citizens  into 
shameful  acts  of  bad  faith — was  portrayed  as  a 
huge  ogre,  a  giant  Blunderbore,  drinking  Indian 
blood  from  two-quart  bowls,  and  never  breakfast 
ing  but  on  Indian  baby.  Meantime  there  filed 
through  Miss  Slopham's  flowing  sentences,  like  a 
procession  of  children  with  banners,  the  mild  and 
faithful  Modoc,  the  unsophisticated  Sioux,  the  ex 
emplary  Pi-Ute,  the  large-eyed  and  pensive  Potta- 
wattamie,  the  Polished  Nez  Perce,  the  amiable 
Pawnee,  the  meek  and  unobtrusive  Ogallala,  and 
the  playful  Apache.  If  there  ever  had  been  a  mas 
sacre  by  Indians,  or  an  act  of  savage  cruelty  by 
other  than  white  men,  it  was  not  found  necessary 
for  the  purposes  of  this  paper  to  mention  it.  Per 
haps  emphasis  is  indispensable  in  advocating  re- 
forms,  and  Indian  reforms  are  surely  needed.  At 


130  POOR   OGLA-MOGA. 

all  events,  there  was  no  lack  of  accentuation  in 
Miss  Slopham's  paper.  The  little  audience  mur 
mured  to  each  other  of  its  literary  skill,  and 
noticed  that  Mr.  Blagg,  who  was  a  high  authority, 
wore  an  approving  smile. 

"  And  now,"  she  read,  as  she  approached  the  end 
of  the  essay,  "  we  have  felt  that  there  could  be 
no  better  way  to  enlist  the  sympathies  of  practical 
men  and  women  than  to  show  them  one  of  these 
unfortunate  people  as  he  is  at  home,  in  his  native 
dress,  in  the  picturesque  pigments  which  he 
delights,  in  his  innocent  and  child-like  fancy,  to 
adorn  himself  with,  and  to  let  you  see  how  far  he 
is  from  being  the  wretch  he  is  represented  to  be, 
how  clearly  the  natural  mildness  of  his  disposition, 
when  unvexed  by  the  tyranny  of  governments, 
shines  through  the  manly  beauty  of  his  counte 
nance.  It  has  so  happened  that  one  of  these  poor 
creatures  has  been  placed  for  a  time  under  my 
charge"  (and  here  a  look  of  dawning  suspicion 
began  to  appear  simultaneously  upon  the  faces  of 
Miss  Ayr  and  Miss  Tristan),  "  and  I  shall  be  able 
to  summon  him  in  a  few  moments  into  your  pres 
ence,  and  beg  you  to  render,  in  behalf  of  this 
simple  and  suffering  race,  the  kind  yet  impartial 
testimony  of  your  own  eyes.  I  ask  this  because" — 

But  what  was  this  strange  noise  in  the  distance 
that  made  Miss  Slopham  pause  in  her  reading,  and 
sent  a  pallor  across  her  cheek  ? — a  sound  as  of  the 
dragging  of  a  heavy  body  through  the  private  hall 
way  leading  from  her  kitchen— a  sound  as  of  a 


POOR   OGLA-MOGA.  13  [ 

struggle,  and  of  scuffling  and  heavy  breathing,  and 
loud  mutterings.  It  flashed  upon  her  in  an  instant 
that  she  had  forgotten  the  little  window  in  the 
store-room.  Had  Ogla-Moga  escaped  ?  What 
had  happened  ? 

But  she  made  an  effort  and  resumed  :  "  I  ask 
this  because — " 

"  Mither  of  Moses  !  what  are  ye  a-doin'  ?  Let 
go  me  hair,  or  I'll  scrame  for  the  perlice  ;"  and 
forthwith  there  went  up  just  outside  of  the  drawing- 
room  door  a  scream  in  the  unmistakable  voice  of 
Bridget,  which  must  have  reached  the  traditionally 
absent  policeman,  no  matter  how  far  he  was  away. 

The  company  had  now  started  to  their  feet  in 
astonishment  and  fright. 

"  Queltzcoatchstepukulistini  !"  — or  that  was 
what  the  response  sounded  like. 

Another  scream  from  Bridget. 

"  Akuishnapaccademipechacquinishcrekepa  !" 

In  another  instant  an  extraordinary  group  reeled 
into  the  doorway — Ogla-Moga,  with  his  robes  torn 
and  spattered,  his  paint  smeared  out  of  its  original 
lines  and  colors,  and  his  face  furrowed  with 
scratches  inflicted  by  the  hands  of  Bridget — Ogla- 
Moga  drunk,  utterly  drunk,  and  brandishing  in  the 
air  a  glittering  carving-knife  ;  and  Bridget — alas  ! 
drunk  too — with  her  hair  in  the  firm  grasp  of  the 
Indian,  who  was  pulling  her  along. 

There  was  a  universal  shriek  of  horror.  Three 
of  the  ladies  bolted  through  the  only  door  which 
the  Indian  did  not  occupy,  and  which  opened  into 


132  FOOR   OGLA-MOGA. 

a  small  bedroom.  They  frantically  pulled  it  shut, 
just  as  three  other  ladies  seized  the  knob  on  the 
outside  and  tried  to  pull  it  open.  As  luck  would 
have  it,  Miss  Ayr  and  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Blenkin 
were  on  the  inside,  and  the  two  Misses  Pound  were 
on  the  outside — a  fact  which  did  not  seem  to 
diminish  the  natural  anxiety  of  the  ladies  on 
either  side  of  the  door  for  their  personal  safety. 
At  all  events,  the  tug  of  war  went  on.  Mr.  Blagg 
showed  extreme  terror,  and  being  plainly  reduced 
by  the  same  to  a  state  of  utter  intellectual  confu 
sion  and  imbecility,  made  an  insane  attempt  to 
scale  the  heights  of  a  large  what-not  in  the  corner 
of  the  room,  which,  of  course,  promptly  came  over 
with  him,  hurling  him  to  the  floor  with  great  vio 
lence,  and  falling  directly  upon  him,  while  it  cov 
ered  his  body  and  the  larger  part  of  the  floor  with 
the  fragments  of  unprecedented  teapots  and  al 
leged  salad-bowls.  Mrs.  Gottom  and  her  niece 
barricaded  themselves  in  the  corner  with  a  sofa, 
and  armed  themselves  with  huge  photograph  al 
bums  to  be  hurled  at  the  enemy  ;  while  Professor 
Phyle,  who  was  a  prominent  member  of  the  Peace 
Society,  quietly  stepped  into  the  window  recess, 
and  drew  the  .curtains  in  defence  of  his  person  and 
his  principles. 

In  the  midst  of  the  turmoil  and  dismay,  Miss 
Tristan  was  heard  to  exclaim,  "  Oh,  aunty,  it  is 
Signer  Barbazzo  !"  and  her  aunt  was  heard  to 
reply,  with  singular  feeling,  "  Hold  your  tongue, 
child,  and  never  speak  to  me  again  as  long  as  you 


POOR    OGLA-MOGA.  133 

live  !"  There  was  a  marked  rustle  of  the  curtains 
in  front  of  Professor  Phyle  at  this  episode.  Mean 
time  Mr.  Michst,  with  a  blind  idea  of  doing  some 
thing,  without  knowing  in  the  least  what  it  ought 
to  be,  had  confronted  the  Indian,  who  still  stood 
there  muttering  and  shaking  his  knife.  Just  then 
he  gave  a  terrible  tug  at  Bridget's  hair,  that  im 
parted  a  projectile  motion  to  her  as  he  swung  her 
away  from  him.  Her  lowered  head  struck  Mr. 
Michst  with  full  force  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
diaphragm,  and  the  two  went  down  on  the  floor 
with  a  crash.  Mr.  Margent,  the  first  to  recover 
his  presence  of  mind,  stepped  over  the  extended 
toes  of  Miss  Slopham,  who  had  simply  dropped 
into  a  chair  in  a  dead  faint,  firmly  seized  the  Ind 
ian's  rigth  hand,  in  which  the  knife  was  held,  and 
putting  his  other  hand  on  the  Indian's  shoulder, 
gently  and  easily  tripped  him  up,  and  when  he  had 
got  him  down  sat  on  his  prostrate  form.  It  had 
hardly  been  done  when  a  dark  little  man  slipped 
into  the  room,  cast  a  swift  glance  around,  and 
without  stopping  to  look  his  astonishment,  in  a 
flash  locked  a  pair  of  handcuffs  on  Ogla-Moga's 
wrists.  In  the  hall  outside  was  a  vision  of  two 
policemen. 

Mr.  Margent,  without  betraying  the  least  sur 
prise,  slowly  got  up,  pulled  a  toothpick  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  began  to  use  it,  while  he  looked  down 
upon  the  Indian.  "  What's  he  done  ?"  he  asked, 
coolly. 

"  Oh,   all  sorts  of  things  :  killed  a  missionary  ; 


134  POOR   OGLA-MOGA. 

poured  a  can  of  kerosene  on  his  squaw,  and  tried 
to  set  her  on  fire,  because  he  wanted  to  take 
another  one  ;  and  so  on.  The  worst  Kickapoo  of 
the  lot.  I've  had  hard  work  to  find  him  ;  but," 
with  a  grin,  "  I  never  expected  to  find  him  in  a 
place  like  this." 

Ogla-Moga  had  fallen  asleep  then  and  there  ! 
The  harsh  music  of  his  snore  filled  the  room.  To 
several  persons  present  it  had  a  familiar  sound. 
Professor  Phyle,  who  had  stuck  his  head  out  of  the 
curtains,  drew  it  in  again  suddenly,  like  the  timid 
turtle. 

"  Poor  Ogla-Moga  !"  said  Miss  Slopham,  who 
had  recovered,  and  had  been  listening.  "  What 
else  could  be  expected  under  a  cruel  and  despotic 
government  ?" 

"Ogla-Moga?  Yes,  ma'am,  that's  his  name 
among  the  tribe.  I'm  the  agent's  deputy.  We 
called  him  Ugly-Mug,  and  that  was  the  way  the 
Indians  pronounced  it.  It  is  ugly,  you  see,  ma'am." 

It  was  ugly.  It  was  the  last  blow.  Miss  Slop- 
ham  said  not  another  word,  and,  strange  to  say, 
Mr.  Blagg  never  mentioned  these  interesting  inci 
dents  in  his  correspondence. 


A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

BY  CELIA  THAXTER. 


AT  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  on  the  5th  of  March  in 
the  year  1873,  occurred  one  of  the  most  mon 
strous  tragedies  ever  enacted  on  this  planet.  The 
sickening  details  of  the  double  murder  are  well 
known ;  the  newspapers  teemed  with  them  for 
months  :  but  the  pathos  of  the  story  is  not  realized ; 
the  world  does  not  know  how  gentle  a  life  these 
poor  people  led,  how  innocently  happy  were  their 
quiet  days.  They  were  all  Norwegians.  The  more 
I  see  qf  the  natives  of  this  far-off  land,  the  more  I 
admire  the  fine  qualities  which  seem  to  characterize 
them  as  a  race.  Gentle,  faithful,  intelligent,  God 
fearing  human  beings,  they  daily  use  such  courtesy 
toward  each  other  and  all  who  come  in  contact 
with  them,  as  puts  our  ruder  Yankee  manners  to 
shame.  The  men  and  women  living  on  this  lonely 
island  were  like  the  sweet,  honest,  simple  folk  we 
read  of  in  Bjornson's  charming  Norwegian  stories, 

»*«  Atlantic  Monthly,  May,  1875. 


136  A    MEMORABLE   MURDER. 

full  of  kindly  thoughts  and  ways.  The  murdered 
Anethe  might  have  been  the  Eli  of  Bjornson's  beau 
tiful  Arne  or  the  Ragnhild  of  Boyesen's  lovely 
romance.  They  rejoiced  to  find  a  home  just  such 
as  they  desired  in  this  peaceful  place;  the  women 
took  such  pleasure  in  the  little  house  which  they 
kept  so  neat  and  bright,  in  their  flock  of  hens,  their 
little  dog  Ringe,  and  all  their  humble  belongings  ! 
The  Norwegians  are  an  exceptionally  affectionate 
people;  family  ties  are  very  strong  and  precious 
among  them.  Let  me  tell  the  story  of  their  sorrow 
as  simply  as  may  be. 

Louis  Wagner  murdered  Anethe  and  Karen 
Christensen  at  midnight  on  the  5th  of  March,  two 
years  ago  this  spring.  The  whole  affair  shows  the 
calmness  of  a  practiced  hand  ;  there  was  no  malice  in 
the  deed,  no  heat ;  it  was  one  of  the  coolest  instances 
of  deliberation  ever  chronicled  in  the  annals  of 
crime.  He  admits  that  these  people  had  shown 
him  nothing  but  kindness.  He  says  in  so  many 
words,  "  They  were  my  best  friends."  They  looked 
upon  him  as  a  brother.  Yet  he  did  not  hesitate  to 
murder  them.  The  island  called  Smutty-Nose  by 
human  perversity  (since  in  old  times  it,  bore  the 
pleasanter  title  of  Haley's  Island)  was  selected  to 
be  the  scene  of  this  disaster.  Long  ago  I  lived  two 
years  upon  it,  and  know  well  its  whitened  ledges 
and  grassy  slopes,  its  low  thickets  of  wild-rose  and 
bayberry,  its  sea-wall  still  intact,  connecting  it  with 
the  small  island  Malaga,  opposite  Appledore,  and 
the  ruined  break-water  which  links  it  with  Cedar 


A   MEMORABLE  MURDER.  137 

Island  on  the  other  side.  A  lonely  cairn,  erected  by 
some  long  ago  forgotten  fishermen  or  sailors,  stands 
upon  the  highest  rock  at  the  southeastern  extrem 
ity  ;  at  its  western  end  a  few  houses  are  scattered, 
small,  rude  dwellings,  with  the  square  old  Haley 
house  near  ;  two  or  three  fish-houses  are  falling 
into  decay  about  the  water-side,  and  the  ancient 
wharf  drops  stone  by  stone  into  the  little  cove, 
where  every  day  the  tide  ebbs  and  flows  and  ebbs 
again  with  pleasant  sound  and  freshness.  Near  the 
houses  is  a  small  grave-yard,  where  a  few  of  the 
natives  sleep,  and  not  far,  the  graves  of  the  fourteen 
Spaniards  lost  in  the  wreck  of  the  ship  Sagunto  in 
the  year  1813.  I  used  to  think  it  was  a  pleasant 
place,  that  low,  rocky,  and  grassy  island,  though  so 
wild  and  lonely. 

From  the  little  town  of  Laurvig,  near  Christiania, 
in  Norway,  came  John  and  Maren  Hontvet  to  this 
country,  and  five  -years  ago  took  up  their  abode  in 
this  desolate  spot,  in  one  of  the  cottages  facing  the 
cove  and  Appledore.  And  there  they  lived  through 
the  long  winters  and  the  lovely  summers,  John 
making  a  comfortable  living  by  fishing,  Maren,  his 
wife,  keeping  as  bright  and  tidy  and  sweet  a  little 
home  for  him  as  man  could  desire.  The  bit  of 
garden  they  cultivated  in  the  summer  was  a  pleas 
ure  to  them  ;  they  made  their  house  as  pretty  as 
they  could  with  paint  and  paper  and  gay  pictures, 
and  Maren  had  a  shelf  for  her  plants  at  the  window ; 
and  John  was  always  so  good  to  her,  so  kind  and 
thoughtful  of  her  comfort  and  of  what  would  please 


138  A   MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

her,  she  was  entirely  happy.  Sometimes  she  was  a 
little  lonely,  perhaps,  when  he  was  tossing-  afar  off 
on  the  sea,  setting  or  hauling  his  trawls,  or  had 
sailed  to  Portsmouth  to  sell  his  fish.  So  that  she 
was  doubly  glad  when  the  news  came  that  some  of 
her  people  were  coming  over  from  Norway  to  live 
with  her.  And  first,  in  the  month  of  May,  1871, 
came  her  sister  Karen,  who  stayed  only  a  short 
time  with  Maren,  and  then  came  to  Appledore, 
where  she  lived  at  service  two  years,  till  within  a 
fortnight  of  her  death.  The  first  time  I  saw  Maren 
she  brought  her  sister  to  us,  and  I  was  charmed 
with  the  little  woman's  beautiful  behavior;  she 
was  so  gentle,  courteous,  decorous,  she  left  on  my 
mind  a  most  delightful  impression.  Her  face  struck 
me  as  remarkably  good  and  intelligent,  and  her 
gray  eyes  were  full  of  light. 

Karen  was  a  rather  sad-looking  woman,  about 
twenty-nine  years  old  ;  she  had  lost  a  lover  in 
Norway  long  since,  and  in  her  heart  she  fretted  and 
mourned  for  this  continually :  she  could  not  speak 
a  word  of  English  at  first,  but  went  patiently  about 
her  work  and  soon  learned  enough,  and  proved 
herself  an  excellent  servant,  doing  faithfully  and 
thoroughly  everything  she  undertook,  as  is  the  way 
of  her  people  generally.  Her  personal  neatness 
was  most  attractive.  She  wore  gowns  made  of 
cloth  woven  by  herself  in  Norway,  a  coarse  blue 
stuff,  always  neat  and  clean,  and  often  I  used  to 
watch  her  as  she  sat  by  the  fire  spinning  at  a  spin 
ning-wheel  brought  from  her  own  country ;  she 


A    MEMORABLE  MURDER,  139 

made  such  a  pretty  picture,  with  her  blue  gown 
and  fresh  white  apron,  and  the  nice,  clear  white 
muslin  bow  with  which  she  was  in  the  habit  of 
fastening  her  linen  collar,  that  she  was  very  agree 
able  to  look  upon.  She  had  a  pensive  way  of  let 
ting  her  head  droop  a  little  sideways  as  she  spun, 
and  while  the  low  wheel  hummed  monotonously, 
she  would  sit  crooning  sweet,  sad  old  Norwegian 
airs  by  the  hour  together,  perfectly  unconscious 
that  she  was  affording  such  pleasure  to  a  pair  of 
appreciative  eyes.  On  the  i2th  of  October,  1872, 
in  the  second  year  of  her  stay  with  us,  her  brother, 
Ivan  Christensen,  and  his  wife,  Anethe  Mathea, 
came  over  from  their  Norseland  in  an  evil  day,  and 
joined  Maren  and  John  at  their  island,  living  in  the 
same  house  with  them. 

Ivan  and  Anethe  had  been  married  only  since 
Christmas  of  the  preceding  year.  Ivan  was  tall, 
light-haired,  rather  quiet  and  grave.  Anethe  was 
young,  fair,  and  merry,  with  thick,  bright  sunny 
hair,  which  was  so  long  it  reached,  when  unbraided, 
nearly  to  her  knees  ;  blue-eyed,  with  brilliant  teeth 
and  clear,  fresh  complexion,  beautiful,  and  beloved 
beyond  expression  by  her  young  husband,  Ivan. 
Mathew  Hontvet,  John's  brother,  had  also  joined 
the  little  circle  a  year  before,  and  now  Maren's  hap 
piness  was  complete.  Delighted  to  welcome  them 
all,  she  made  all  things  pleasant  for  them,  and  she 
told  me  only  a  few  days  ago,  "  I  never  was  so 
happy  in  my  life  as  when  we  were  all  living  there 
together."  So  they  abode  in  peace  and  quiet,  with 


140  A    MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

not  an  evil  thought  in  their  minds,  kind  and  con 
siderate  toward  each  other,  the  men  devoted  to  their 
women  and  the  women  repaying  them  with  interest, 
till  out  of  the  perfectly  cloudless  sky  one  day  a 
bolt  descended,  without  a  whisper  of  warning,  and 
brought  ruin  and  desolation  into  that  peaceful 
home. 

Louis  Wagner,  who  had  been  in  this  country 
seven  years,  appeared  at  the  Shoals  two  years  before 
the  date  of  the  murder.  He  lived  about  the  islands 
during  that  time.  He  was  born  in  Ueckermiinde,  a 
small  town  of  lower  Pomerania,  in  Northern  Prus 
sia.  Very  little  is  known  about  him,  though  there 
were  vague  rumors  that  his  past  life  had  not  been 
without  difficulties,  and  he  had  boasted  foolishly 
among  his  mates  that  "not  many  had  done  what 
he  had  done  and  got  off  in  safety  ;"  but  people  did 
not  trouble  themselves  about  him  or  his  past,  all 
having  enough  to  do  to  earn  their  bread  and  keep 
the  wolf  from  the  door.  Maren  describes  him  as 
tall,  powerful,  dark,  with  a  peculiarly  quiet  man 
ner.  She  says  she  never  saw  him  drunk — he  seemed 
always  anxious  to  keep  his  wits  about  him  :  he 
would  linger  on  the  outskirts  of  a  drunken  brawl, 
listening  to  and  absorbing  everything,  but  never 
mixing  himself  up  in  any  disturbance.  He  was 
always  lurking  in  corners,  lingering,  looking,  lis 
tening,  and  he  would  look  no  man  straight  in  the 
eyes.  She  spoke,  however,  of  having  once  heard 
him  disputing  with  some  sailors,  at  table,  about 
some  point  of  navigation ;  she  did  not  understand 


A   MEMORABLE  MURDER.  141 

it,  but  all  were  against  Louis,  and,  waxing  warm, 
all  strove  to  show  him  he  was  in  the  wrong.  As  he 
rose  and  left  the  table  she  heard  him  mutter  to  him 
self  with  an  oath,  "I  know  I'm  wrong,  but  I'll 
never  give  in  !"  During  the  winter  preceding  the 
one  in  which  his  hideous  deed  was  committed  he 
lived  at  Star  Island  and  fished  alone,  in  a  wherry; 
but  he  made  very  little  money,  and  came  often  over 
to  the  Hontvets,  where  Maren  gave  him  food  when 
he  was  suffering  from  want,  and  where  he  received 
always  a  welcome  and  the  utmost  kindness.  In 
the  following  June  he  joined  Hontvet  in  his  business 
of  fishing,  and  took  up  his  abode  as  one  of  the 
family  at  Smutty-Nose.  During  the  summer  he 
was  "crippled,"  as  he  said,  by  the  rheumatism,  and 
they  were  all  very  good  to  him,  and  sheltered,  fed, 
nursed  and  waited  upon  him  the  greater  part  of  the 
season.  He  remained  with  them  five  weeks  after 
Ivan  and  Anethe  arrived,  so  that  he  grew  to  know 
Anethe  as  well  as  Maren,  and  was  looked  upon  as 
a  brother  by  all  of  them,  as  I  have  said  before. 
Nothing  occurred  to  show  his  true  character,  and  in 
November  he  left  the  island  and  the  kind  people 
who.se  hospitality  he  was  to  repay  so  fearfully,  and 
going  to  Portsmouth  he  took  passage  in  another 
fishing  schooner,  the  Addison  Gilbert,  which  was 
presently  wrecked  off  the  coast,  and  he  was  again 
thrown  out  of  employment.  Very  recklessly  he 
said  to  Waldemar  Ingebertsen,  to  Charles  Jonsen, 
and  even  to  John  Hontvet  himself,  at  different 
times,  that  "  he  must  have  money  if  he  murdered 


142  A   MEMORABLE   MURDER. 

for  it."  He  loafed  about  Portsmouth  eight  weeks, 
doing  nothing.  Meanwhile  Karen  left  our  service 
in  February,  intending  to  go  to  Boston  and  work 
at  a  sewing-machine,  for  she  was  not  strong  and 
thought  she  should  like  it  better  than  housework, 
but  before  going  she  lingered  awhile  with  her  sister 
Maren — fatal  delay  for  her  !  Maren  told  me  that 
during  this  time  Karen  went  to  Portsmouth  and 
had  her  teeth  removed,  meaning  to  provide  herself 
with  a  new  set.  At  the  Jonsens',  where  Louis  was 
staying,  one  day  she  spoke  to  Mrs.  Jonsen  of  her 
mouth,  that  it  was  so  sensitive  since  the  teeth  had 
been  taken  out ;  and  Mrs.  Jonsen  asked  her  how 
long  she  must  wait  before  the  new  set  could  be  put 
in.  Karen  replied  that  it  would  be  three  months, 
Louis  Wagner  was  walking  up  and  down  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room  with  his  arms  folded,  his 
favorite  attitude.  Mrs.  Jensen's  daughter  passed 
near  him  and  heard  him  mutter,  "  Three  months  ! 
What  is  the  use  !  In  three  months  you  will  be 
dead!"  He  did  not  know  the  girl  was  so  near, 
and  turning,  he  confronted  her.  He  knew  she 
must  have  heard  what  he  said,  and  he  glared  at  her 
like  a  wild  man. 

On  the  fifth  day  of  March,  1873,  John  Hontvet, 
his  brother  Mathew,  and  Ivan  Christensen  set  sail 
in  John's  little  schooner,  the  Clara  Bella,  to  draw 
their  trawls.  At  that  time  four  of  the  islands  were 
inhabited  :  one  family  on  White  Island,  at  the  light 
house  ;  the  workmen  who  were  building  the  new 
hotel  on  Star  Island,  and  one  or  two  households  be- 


A    MEMORABLE   MURDER.  143 

side;  the  Hontvet  family  at  Smutty-Nose;  and  on 
Appledore,  the  household  at  the  large  house,  and 
on  the  southern  side,  opposite  Smutty-Nose,  a  little 
cottage,  where  lived  Jorge  Edvardt  Ingebertsen,  his 
wife  and  children,  and  several  men  who  fished  with 
him.  Smutty-Nose  is  not  in  sight  of  the  large 
house  at  Appledore,  so  we  were  in  ignorance  of  all 
that  happened  on  that  dreadful  night,  longer  than 
the  other  inhabitants  of  the  Shoals. 

John,  Ivan  and  Mathew  went  to  draw  their  trawls, 
which  had  been  set  some  miles  to  the  eastward  of 
the  islands.  They  intended  to  be  back  to  dinner,  and 
then  to  go  on  to  Portsmouth  with  their  fish,  and 
bait  the  trawls  afresh,  ready  to  bring  back  to  set 
again  next  day.  But  the  wind  was  strong  and  fair 
for  Portsmouth  and  ahead  for  the  islands;  it  would 
have  been  a  long  beat  home  against  it  ;  so  they  went 
on  to  Portsmouth,  without  touching  at  the  island  to 
leave  one  man  to  guard  the  women,  as  had  been  their 
custom.  This  was  the  first  night  in  all  the  years 
Maren  had  lived  there  that  the  house  was  without  a 
man  to  protect  it.  But  John,  always  thoughtful 
for  her,  asked  Emil  Ingebertsen,  whom  he  met 
on  the  fishing-grounds,  to  go  over  from  Apple 
dore  and  tell  her  that  they  had  gone  on  to  Ports 
mouth  with  the  favoring  wind,  but  that  they  hoped 
to  be  back  that  night.  And  he  would  have  been 
back  had  the  bait  he  expected  from  Boston  arrived 
on  the  train  in  which  it  was  due.  How  curi 
ously  everything  adjusted  itself  to  favor  the 
bringing  about  of  this  horrible  catastrophe !  The 


144  *    MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

bait  did  not  arrive  till  the  half-past  twelve  train, 
and  they  were  obliged  to  work  the  whole  night 
getting  their  trawls  ready,  thus  leaving  the  way 
perfectly  clear  for  Louis  Wagner's  awful  work. 

The  three  women  left  alone  watched  and  waited 
in  vain  for  the  schooner  to  return,  and  kept  the 
dinner  hot  for  the  men,  and  patiently  wondered 
why  they  did  not  come.  In  vain  they  searched  the 
wide  horizon  for  that  returning  sail.  Ah  me,  what 
pathos  is  in  that  longing  look  of  women's  eyes 
for  far-off  sails !  That  gaze,  so  eager,  so  steadfast, 
that  it  would  almost  seem  as  if  it  must  conjure 
up  the  ghostly  shape  of  glimmering  canvas  from 
the  mysterious  distances  of  sea  and  sky,  and  draw 
it  unerringly  home  by  the  mere  force  of  intense 
wistfulness!  And  those  gentle  eyes,  that  were 
never  to  seethe  light  of  another  sun,  looked  anx 
iously  across  the  heaving  sea  till  twilight  fell, 
and  then  John's  messenger,  Emil,  arrived — Emil 
Ingebertsen,  courteous  and  gentle  as  a  youthful 
knight — and  reassured  them  with  his  explanation, 
which  having  given,  he  departed,  leaving  them  in 
a  much  more  cheerful  state  of  mind.  So  the  three 
sisters,  with  only  the  little  dog  Ringe  for  a  protector, 
sat  by  the  fire  chatting  together  cheerfully.  They 
fully  expected  the  schooner  back  again  that  night 
from  Portsmouth,  but  they  were  not  ill  at  ease 
while  they  waited;  Of  what  should  they  be  afraid  ? 
They  had  not  an  enemy  in  the  world  !  No  shadow 
crept  to  the  fireside  to  warn  them  what  was  at  hand, 
no  portent  of  death  chilled  the  air  as  they  talked 


A   MEMORABLE  MURDER.  145 

their  pleasant  talk  and  made  their  little  plans  in 
utter  unconsciousness.  Karen  was  to  have  gone  to 
Portsmouth  with  the  fishermen  that  day  ;  she  was 
all  ready  dressed  to  go.  Various  little  commis 
sions  were  given  her,  errands  to  do  for  the  two 
sisters  she  was  to  leave  behind.  Maren  wanted 
some  buttons,  and  "  I'll  give  you  one  for  a  pattern  ; 
I'll  put  it  in  your  purse,"  she  said  to  Karen,  "and 
then  when  you  open  your  purse  you'll  be  sure  to 
remember  it."  (That  little  button,  of  a  peculiar 
pattern,  was  found  in  Wagner's  possession  after 
ward.)  They  sat  up  till  ten  o'clock,  talking  to 
gether.  The  night  was  bright  and  calm  ;  it  was  a 
comfort  to  miss  the  bitter  winds  that  had  raved 
about  the  little  dwelling  all  the  long,  rough  winter. 
Already  it  was  spring;  this  calm  was  the  first  token 
of  its  coming.  It  was  the  5th  of  March  ;  in  a  few 
weeks  the  weather  would  soften,  the  grass  grow 
green,  and  Anethe  would  see  the  first  flowers  in  this 
strange  country,  so  far  from  her  home  where  she 
had  left  father  and  mother,  kith  and  kin,  for  love  of 
Ivan.  The  delicious  days  of  summer  at  hand  would 
transform  the  work  of  the  toiling  fishermen  to 
pleasure,  and  all  things  would  bloom  and  smile 
about  the  poor  people  on  the  lonely  rock  !  Alas,  it 
was  not  to  be. 

At  ten  o'clock  they  went  to  bed.  It  was  cold  and 
"  lonesome"  up-stairs,  so  Maren  put  some  chairs 
by  the  side  of  the  lounge,  laid  a  mattress  upon  it, 
and  made  up  a  bed  for  Karen  in  the  kitchen,  where 
she  presently  fell  asleep.  Maren  and  Anethe  slept 


146  A   MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

in  the  next  room.  So  safe  they  felt  themselves, 
they  did  not  pull  down  a  curtain,  nor  even  try  to 
fasten  the  house-door.  They  went  to  their  rest  in 
absolute  security  and  perfect  trust.  It  was  the  first 
still  night  of  the  new  year ;  a  young  moon  stole 
softly  down  toward  the  west, a  gentle  wind  breathed 
through  the  quiet  dark,  and  the  waves  whispered 
gently  about  the  island,  helping  to  lull  those  in 
nocent  souls  to  yet  more  peaceful  slumber.  Ah, 
where  were  the  gales  of  March  that  might  have 
plowed  that  tranquil  sea  to  foam,  and  cut  off  the 
fatal  path  of  Louis  Wagner  to  that  happy  home ! 
But  nature  seemed  to  pause  and  wait  for  him.  I  re 
member  looking  abroad  over  the  waves  that  night 
and  rejoicing  over  "  the  first  calm  night  of  the  year !" 
It  was  so  still,  so  bright !  The  hope  of  all  the  light 
and  beauty  a  few  weeks  would  bring  forth  stirred 
me  to  sudden  joy.  There  should  be  spring  again 
after  the  long  winter-weariness. 

"  Can  trouble  live  in  April  days, 
Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ?" 

I  thought,  as  I  watched  the  clear  sky,  grown  less 
hard  than  it  had  been  for  weeks,  and  sparkling  with 
stars.  But  before  another  sunset  it  seemed  to  me 
that  beauty  had  fled  out  of  the  world,  and  that  good 
ness,  innocence,  mercy,  gentleness,  were  a  mere 
mockery  of  empty  words. 

Here  let  us  leave  the  poor  women,  asleep  on  the 
lonely  rock,  with  no  help  near  them  in  heaven  or 
upon  earth,  and  follow  the  fishermen  to  Portsmouth, 


A   MEMORABLE   MURDER.  147 

where  they  arrived  about  four  o'clock  that  after 
noon.  One  of  the  first  men  whom  they  saw  as  they 
neared  the  town  was  Louis  Wagner;  to  him  they 
threw  the  rope  from  the  schooner,  and  he  helped 
draw  her  in  to  the  wharf.  Greetings  passed  between 
them  ;  he  spoke  to  Mathew  Hontvet,  and  as  he  look 
ed  at  Ivan  Christensen,  the  men  noticed  a  flush  pass 
over  Louis's  face.  He  asked  were  they  going  out 
again  that  night  ?  Three  times  before  they  parted 
he  asked  that  question  ;  he  saw  that  all  the  three 
men  belonging  to  the  island  had  come  away  to 
gether  ;  he  began  to  realize  his  opportunity.  They 
answered  him  that  if  their  bait  came  by  the  train 
in  which  they  expected  it,  they  hoped  to  get  back 
that  night,  but  if  it  was  late  they  should  be  obliged 
to  stay  till  morning,  baiting  their  trawls ;  and  they 
asked  him  to  come  and  help  them.  It  is  a  long 
and  tedious  business,  the  baiting  of  trawls;  often 
more  than  a  thousand  hooks  are  to  be  manipulated, 
and  lines  and  hooks  coiled,  clear  of  tangles,  into 
tubs,  all  ready  for  throwing  overboard,  when  the 
fishing-grounds  are  reached.  Louis  gave  them  a 
half  promise  that  he  would  help  them,  but  they  did 
not  see  him  again  after  leaving  the  wharf.  The  three 
fishermen  were  hungry,  not  having  touched  at  their 
island,  where  Maren  always  provided  them  with  a 
supply  of  food  to  take  with  them  ;  they  asked  each 
other  if  either  had  brought  any  money  with  which 
to  buy  bread,  and  it  came  out  that  every  one  had 
left  his  pocket-book  at  home.  Louis,  standing  by, 
heard  all  this.  He  asked  John,  then,  if  he  had 


148  A    MEMORABLE   MURDER. 

made   fishing   pay.     John    answered     that   he   had 
cleared  about  six  hundred  dollars. 

The  men  parted,  the  honest  three  about  their 
business;  but  Louis,  what  became  of  him  with  his 
evil  thoughts  ?  At  about  half-past  seven  he  went 
into  a  liquor  shop  and  had  a  glass  of  something  ; 
not  enough  to  make  him  unsteady, — he  was  too 
wise  for  that.  He  was  not  seen  again  in  Ports 
mouth  by  any  human  creature  that  night.  He  must 
have  gone,  after  that,  directly  down  to  the  river, 
that  beautiful,  broad  river,  the  Piscataqua,  upon 
whose  southern  bank  the  quaint  old  city  of  Ports 
mouth  dreams  its  quiet  days  away  ;  and  there  he 
found  a  boat  ready  to  his  hand,  a  dory  belonging  to 
a  man  by  the  name  of  David  Burke,  who  had  that 
day  furnished  it  with  new  thole-pins.  When  it  was 
picked  up  afterward  off  the  mouth  of  the  river, 
Louis's  anxious  oars  had  eaten  half-way  through 
the  substance  of  these  pins,  which  are  always  made 
of  the  hardest,  toughest  wood  that  can  be  found.  A 
terrible  piece  of  rowing  must  that  have  been,  in  one 
night !  Twelve  miles  from  the  city  to  the  Shoals, — 
three  to  the  light-houses,  where  the  river  meets  the 
open  sea,  nine  more  to  the  islands;  nine  back  again 
to  Newcastle  next  morning !  He  took  that  boat, 
and  with  the  favoring  tide  dropped  down  the  rapid 
river  where  the  swift  current  is  so  strong  that  oars 
are  scarcely  needed,  except  to  keep  the  boat 
steady.  Truly  all  nature  seemed  to  play  into  his 
hands ;  this  first  relenting  night  of  earliest  spring 
favored  him  with  its  stillness,  the  tide  was  fair, 


A   MEMORABLE  MUKDER.  149 

the  wind  was  fair,  the  little  moon  gave  him  just 
enough  light,  without  betraying  him  to  any  curious 
eyes,  as  he  glided  down  the  three  miles  between  the 
river  banks,  in  haste  to  reach  the  sea.  Doubtless 
the  light  west  wind  played  about  him  as  delicately 
as  if  he  had  been  the  most  human  of  God's  creat 
ures;  nothing  breathed  remonstrance  in  his  ear, 
nothing  whispered  in  the  whispering  water  that 
rippled  about  his  inexorable  keel,  steering 
straight  for  the  Shoals  through  the  quiet  dark 
ness.  The  snow  lay  thick  and  white  upon  the  land 
in  the  moonlight ;  lamps  twinkled  here  and  there 
from  dwellings  on  either  side ;  in  Eliot'and  New 
castle,  in  Portsmouth  and  Kittery,  roofs,  chimneys, 
and  gables  showed  faintly  in  the  vague  light ;  the 
leafless  trees  clustered  dark  in  hollows  or  lifted 
their  tracery  of  bare  boughs  in  higher  spaces 
against  the  wintry  sky.  His  eyes  must  have  looked 
on  it  all,  whether  he  saw  the  peaceful  picture  or  not. 
Beneath  many  a  humble  roof  honest  folk  were 
settling  into  their  untroubled  rest,  as  "  this  planned 
piece  of  deliberate  wickedness  "  was  stealing  silent 
ly  by  with  his  heart  full  of  darkness,  blacker  than 
the  black  tide  that  swirled  beneath  his  boat  and 
bore  him  fiercely  on.  At  the  river's  mouth  stood 
the  sentinel  light-houses,  sending  their  great  spokes 
of  light  afar  into  the  night,  like  the  arms  of  a  wide 
humanity  stretching  into  the  darkness  helping  hands 
to  bring  all  who  needed  succor  safely  home.  He 
passed  them,  first  the  tower  at  Fort  Point,  then  the 
taller  one  at  Whale's  Back,  steadfastly  holding 


150  A   MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

aloft  their  warning  fires.  There  was  no  signal  from 
the  warning  bell  as  he  rowed  by,  though  a  danger 
more  subtle,  more  deadly,  than  fog,  or  hurricane, 
or  pelting  storm  was  passing  swift  beneath  it.  Un 
challenged  by  anything  in  earth  or  heaven,  he  kept 
on  his  way  and  gained  the  great  outer  ocean,  doubt 
less  pulling  strong  and  steadily,  for  he  had  no  time 
to  lose,  and  the  longest  night  was  all  too  short  for 
an  undertaking  such  as  this.  Nine  miles  from  the 
light-houses  to  the  islands  !  Slowly  he  makes  his 
way  ;  it  seems  to  take  an  eternity  of  time.  And  now 
he  is  midway  between  the  islands  and  the  coast. 
That  little  toy  of  a  boat  with  its  one  occupant  in 
the  midst  of  the  awful,  black,  heaving  sea  !  The 
vast  dim  ocean  whispers  with  a  thousand  waves  ; 
against  the  boat's  side  the  ripples  lightly  tap,  and 
pass  and  are  lost  ;  the  air  is  full  of  fine,  mysterious 
voices  of  winds  and  waters.  Has  he  no  fear,  alone 
there  on  the  midnight  sea  with  such  a  purpose  in 
his  heart?  The  moonlight  sends  a  long,  golden 
track  across  the  waves ;  it  touches  his  dark  face 
and  figure,  it  glitters  on  his  dripping  oars.  On  his 
right  hand  Boone  Island  light  shows  like  a  setting 
star  on  the  horizon,  low  on  his  left  the  two  beacons 
twinkle  off  Newburyport,  at  tlie  mouth  of  the  Mer- 
rimack  River;  all  the  light-houses  stand  watching 
along  the  coast,  wheeling  their  long,  slender  shafts 
of  radiance  as  if  pointing  at  this  black  atom  creeping 
over  the  face  of  the  planet  with  such  colossal  evil  in 
his  heart.  Before  him  glitters  the  Shoals'  light  at 
White  Island,  and  helps  to  guide  him  to  his  prey. 


A    MEMORABLE  MURDER.  151 

Alas,  my  friendly  light-house,  that  you  should  serve 
so  terrible  a  purpose  !  Steadily  the  oars  click  in  the 
rowlocks ;  stroke  after  stroke  of  the  broad  blades 
draws  him  away  from  the  lessening  line  of  land, 
over  the  wavering  floor  of  the  ocean,  nearer  the 
londy  rocks.  Slowly  the  coast-lights  fade,  and 
now  the  rote  of  the  sea  among  the  lonely  ledges  of 
the  Shoals  salutes  his  attentive  ear.  A  little  longer 
and  he  nears  Appledore,  the  first  island,  and  now 
he  passes  by  the  snow-covered,  ice-bound  rock, 
with  the  long  buildings  showing  clear  in  the  moon 
light.  He  must  have  looked  at  them  as  he  went 
past.  I  wonder  we  who  slept  beneath  the  roofs 
that  glimmered  to  his  eyes  in  the  uncertain  light 
did  not  feel,  through  the  thick  veil  of  sleep,  what 
fearful  thing  passed  by  !  But  we  slumbered  peace 
fully  as  the  unhappy  woman  whose  doom  every 
click  of  those  oars  in  the  rowlocks,  like  the  ticking 
of  some  dreadful  clock,  was  bringing  nearer  and 
nearer.  Between  the  islands  he  passes;  they  are 
full  of  chilly  gleams  and  glooms.  There  is  no 
scene  more  weird  than  these  snow-covered  rocks  in 
winter,  more  shudderful  and  strange  :  the  moon 
light  touching  them  with  mystic  glimmer,  the 
black  water  breaking  about  them,  and  the  vast  shad 
owy  spaces  of  the  sea  stretching  to  the  horizon  on 
every  side,  full  of  vague  sounds,  of  half  lights  and 
shadows,  of  fear,  and  of  mystery.  The  island  he 
seeks  lies  before  him,  lone  and  still ;  there  is  no 
gleam  in  any  window,  there  is  no  help  near,  noth 
ing  ^pon  which  the  women  can  call  for  succor.  He 


152  A    MEMORABLE   MURDER. 

does  not  land  in  the  cove  where  all  boats  put  in  ; 
he  rows  round  to  the  south  side  and  draws  his 
boat  up  on  the  rocks.  His  red  returning  footsteps 
are  found  here  next  day,  staining  the  snow.  He 
makes  his  way  to  the  house  he  knows  so  well. 

All  is  silent :  nothing  moves,  nothing  sounds  but 
the  hushed  voices  of  the  sea.  His  hand  is  on  the 
latch,  he  enters  stealthily,  there  is  nothing  to  resist 
him.  The  little  dog,  Ringe,  begins  to  bark  sharp 
and  loud,  and  Karen  rouses,  crying,  "John,  is  that 
you?"  thinking  the  expected  fishermen  had  return 
ed.  Louis  seizes  a  chair  and  strikes  at  her  in  the 
dark;  the  clock  on  a  shelf  above  her  head  falls 
down  with  the  jarring  of  the  blow,  and  stops  at  ex 
actly  seven  minutes  to  one.  Maren,  in  the  next 
room,  waked  suddenly  from  her  sound  sleep,  trying 
in  vain  to  make  out  the  meaning  of  it  all,  cries, 
''What's  the  matter?"  Karen  answers,  "John 
scared  me!  "  Maren  springs  from  her  bed  and  tries 
to  open  her  chamber  door;  Louis  has  fastened  it 
on  the  other  side  by  pushing  a  stick  through  over 
the  latch.  With  her  heart  leaping  with  terror  the 
poor  child  shakes  the  door  with  all  her  might,  in 
vain.  Utterly  confounded  and  bewildered,  she 
hears  Karen  screaming,  "John  kills  me!  John 
kills  me!"  She  hears  the  sound  of  repeated 
blows  and  shrieks,  till  at  last  her  sister  falls  heav 
ily  against  the  door,  which  gives  way,  and  Ma 
ren  rushes  out.  She  catches  dimly  a  glimpse  of 
a  tall  figure  outlined  against  the  southern  window; 
she  seizes  poor  Karen  and  drags  her  with  the 


A   MEMORABLE  MURDER.  153 

strength  of  frenzy  within  the  bedroom.  This  un 
known  terror,  this  fierce,  dumb  monster  who  never 
utters  a  sound  to  betray  himself  through  the  whole, 
pursues  her  with  blows,  strikes  her  three  times 
with  a  chair,  either  blow  with  fury  sufficient  to  kill 
her,  had  it  been  light  enough  for  him  to  see  how  to 
direct  it ;  but  she  gets  her  sister  inside  and  the  door 
shut,  and  holds  it  against  him  with  all  her  might 
and  Karen's  failing  strength.  What  a  little  heroine 
was  this  poor  child,  struggling  with  the  force  of 
desperation  to  save  herself  and  her  sisters ! 

All  this  time  Anethe  lay  dumb,  not  daring  to 
move  or  breathe,  roused  from  the  deep  sleep  of 
youth  and  health  by  this  nameless,  formless  terror. 
Maren,  while  she  strives  to  hold  the  door  at  which 
Louis  rattles  again  and  again,  calls  to  her  in  an 
guish,  "Anethe,  Anethe  !  Get  out  of  the  window  ! 
run  !  hide!"  The  poor  girl,  almost  paralyzed  with 
fear,  tries  to  obey,  puts  her  bare  feet  out  of  the  low 
window,  and  stands  outside  in  the  freezing  snow, 
with  one  light  garment  over  her  cowering  figure, 
shrinking  in  the  cold  winter  wind,  the  clear  moon 
light  touching  her  white  face  and  bright  hair  and 
fair  young  shoulders.  "  Scream  !  scream  !"  shouts 
frantic  Maren.  "  Somebody  at  Star  Island  may 
hear!"  but  Anethe  answers  with  the  calmness  of 
despair,  "I  cannot  make  a  sound."  Maren  screams 
herself,  but  the  feeble  sound  avails  nothing.  "  Run  ! 
run!"  she  cries  to  Anethe;  but  again  Anethe  an 
swers,  "I  cannot  move." 

Louis  has  left  off  trying  to  force  the  door  ;  he 


154  A   MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

listens.  Are  the  women  trying  to  escape?  He  goes 
out-of-doors.  Maren  flies  to  the  window  ;  he  comes 
round  the  corner  of  the  house  and  confronts  Anethe 
where  she  stands  in  the  snow.  The  moonlight  shines 
full  in  his  face  ;  she  shrieks  loudly  and  distinctly, 
"Louis,  Louis!" 

Ah,  he  is  discovered,  he  is  recognized !  Quick 
as  thought  he  goes  back  to  the  front  door,  at  the 
side  of  which  stands  an  ax,  left  there  by  Maren, 
who  had  used  it  the  day  before  to  cut  the  ice 
from  the  well.  He  returns  to  Anethe  standing 
shuddering  there.  It  is  no  matter  that  she  is 
beautiful,  young,  and  helpless  to  resist,  that  she 
has  been  kind  to  him,  that  she  never  did  a  human 
creature  harm,  that  she  stretches  her  gentle  hands 
out  to  him  in  agonized  entreaty,  crying  piteously, 
"Oh,  Louis,  Louis,  Louis!"  He  raises  the  ax  and 
brings  it  down  on  her  bright  head  in  one  tremen 
dous  blow,  and  she  sinks  without  a  sound  and  lies 
in  a  heap,  with  her  warm  blood  reddening  the  snow. 
Then  he  deals  her  blow  after  blow,  almost  within 
reach  of  Maren's  hands,  as  she  stands  at  the  window. 
Distracted,  Maren  strives  to  rouse  poor  Karen,  who 
kneels  with  her  head  on  the  side  of  the  bed ;  with 
desperate  entreaty  she  tries  to  get  her  up  and  away, 
but  Karen  moans,  "  I  cannot,  I  cannot."  She  is  too 
far  gone;  and  then  Maren  knows  she  cannot  save 
her,  and  that  she  must  flee  herself  or  die.  So,  while 
Louis  again  enters  the  house,  she  seizes  a  skirt  and 
wraps  round  her  shoulders,  and  makes  her  way  out 
of  the  open  window,  over  Anethe's  murdered  body, 


A  MEMORABLE   MURDER.  155 

barefooted,  flying  away,  anywhere,  breathless,  shak 
ing  with  terror. 

Where  can  she  go  ?  Her  little  dog,  frightened 
into  silence,  follows  her, — pressing  so  close  to  her 
feet  that  she  falls  over  him  more  than  once.  Look 
ing  back  she  sees  Louis  has  lit  a  lamp  and  is  seeking 
for  her.  She  flies  to  the  cove  ;  if  she  can  but  find 
his  boat  and  row  away  in  it  and  get  help  !  It  is  not 
there;  there  is  no  boat  in  which  she  can  get  away. 
She  hears  Karen's  wild  screams,— he  is  killing  her  ! 
Oh,  where  can  she  go  ?  Is  there  any  place  on  that 
little  island  where  he  will  not  find  her?  She  thinks 
she  will  creep  into  one  of  the  empty  old  houses  by 
the  water;  but  no,  she  reflects,  if  I  hide  there,  Ringe 
will  bark  and  betray  me  the  moment  Louis  comes 
to  look  for  me.  And  Ringe  saved  her  life,  for  next 
day  Louis's  bloody  tracks  were  found  all  about  those 
old  buildings  where  he  had  sought  her.  She  flies, 
with  Karen's  awful  cries  in  her  ears,  away  over 
rocks  and  snow  to  the  farthest  limit  she  can  gain. 
The  moon  has  set  ;  it  is  about  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  oh,  so  cold !  She  shivers  and  shud 
ders  from  head  to  feet,  but  her  agony  of  terror  is 
so  great  she  is  hardly  conscious  of  bodily  sensation. 
And  welcome  is  the  freezing  snow,  the  jagged  ice 
and  iron  rocks  that  tear  her  unprotected  feet,  the 
bitter  brine  that  beats  against  the  shore,  the  winter 
winds  that  make  her  shrink  and  tremble  ;  "they 
are  not  so  unkind  as  man's  ingratitude!"  Falling 
often,  rising,  struggling  on  with  feverish  haste,  she 
makes  her  way  to  the  very  edge  of  the  water  ;  down 


156  A    MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

almost  into  the  sea  she  creeps,  between  two  rocks, 
upon  her  hands  and  knees,  and  crouches,  face 
downward,  with  Ringe  nestled  close  beneath  her 
breast,  not  daring  to  move  through  the  long  hours 
that  must  pass  before  the  sun  will  rise  again.  She 
is  so  near  the  ocean  she  can  almost  reach  the  water 
with  her  hand.  Had  the  wind  breathed  the  least 
roughly  the  waves  must  have  washed  over  her. 
There  let  us  leave  her  and  go  back  to  Louis  Wag 
ner.  Maren  heard  her  sister  Karen's  shrieks  as  she 
fled.  The  poor  girl  had  crept  into  an  unoccupied 
room  in  a  distant  part  of  the  house,  striving  to  hide 
herself.  He  could  not  kill  her  with  blows,  blunder 
ing  in  the  darkness,  so  he  wound  a  handkerchief 
about  her  throat  and  strangled  her.  But  now  he 
seeks  anxiously  for  Maren.  Has  she  escaped? 
What  terror  is  in  the  thought !  Escaped,  to  tell  the 
tale,  to  accuse  him  as  the  murderer  of  her  sisters. 
Hurriedly,  with  desperate  anxiety,  he  seeks  for  her. 
His  time  was  growing  short;  it  was  not  in  his  pro 
gramme  that  this  brave  little  creature  should  give 
him  so  much  trouble  ;  he  had  not  calculated  on 
resistance  from  these  weak  and  helpless  women. 
Already  it  was  morning,  soon  it  would  be  daylight. 
He  could  not  find  her  in  or  near  the  house;  he  went 
down  to  the  empty  and  dilapidated  houses  about 
the  cove,  and  sought  her  everywhere.  What  a  pict 
ure  !  That  blood-stained  butcher,  with  his  dark 
face,  crawling  about  those  cellars,  peering  for  that 
woman  !  He  dared  not  spend  any  more  time  ;  he 
must  go  back  for  the  money  he  hoped  to  find,  his 


A   MEMORABLE  MURDER.  157 

reward  for  this  !  All  about  the  house  he  searches, 
in  bureau  drawers,  in  trunks  and  boxes  :  he  finds 
fifteen  dollars  for  his  night's  work  !  Several  hun 
dreds  were  lying  between  some  sheets  folded  at  the 
bottom  of  a  drawer  in  which  he  looked.  But  he 
cannot  stop  for  more  thorough  investigation  ;  a 
dreadful  haste  pursues  him  like  a  thousand  fiends. 
He  drags  Anethe's  stiffening  body  into  the  house, 
and  leaves  it  on  the  kitchen  floor.  If  the  thought 
crosses  his  mind  to  set  fire  to  the  house  and  burn 
up  his  two  victims,  he  dares  not  do  it :  it  will  make 
a  fatal  bonfire  to  light  his  homeward  way;  besides, 
it  is  useless,  for  Maren  has  escaped  to  accuse  him, 
and  the  time  presses  so  horribly ! 

But  how  cool  a  monster  is  he  !  After  all  this 
hard  work  he  must  have  refreshment,  to-  support 
him  in  the  long  row  back  to  the  land;  knife 
and  fork,  cup  and  plate,  were  found  next  morn 
ing  on  the  table  near  where  Anethe  lay ;  frag 
ments  of  food  which  was  not  cooked  in  the 
house,  but  brought  from  Portsmouth,  were  scat 
tered  about.  Tidy  Maren  had  left  neither  dishes 
nor  food  when  they  went  to  bed.  The  handle  of  the 
tea-pot  which  she  had  left  on  the  stove  was  stained 
and  smeared  with  blood.  Can  the  human  mind 
conceive  of  such  hideous  nonchalance?  Wagner  sat 
down  in  that  room  and  ate  and  drank !  It  is  almost 
beyond  belief !  Then  he  went  to  the  well  with  a 
basin  and  towels,  tried  to  wash  off  the  blood,  and 
left  towels  and  basin  in  the  well.  He  knows  he 
must  be  gone!  It  is  certain  death  to  linger.  He 


158  A   MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

takes  his  boat  and  rows  away  toward  the  dark  coast 
and  the  twinkling  lights  ;  it  is  for  dear  life,  now  ! 
What  powerful  strokes  send  the  small  skiff  rushing 
over  the  water  ! 

There  is  no  longer  any  moon,  the  night  is  far 
spent ;  already  the  east  changes,  the  stars  fade ;  he 
rows  like  a  madman  to  reach  the  land,  but  a  blush 
of  morning  is  stealing  up  the  sky,  and  sunrise  is 
rosy  over  shore  and  sea,  when  panting,  trembling, 
weary,  a  creature  accursed,  a  blot  on  the  face  of  the 
day,  he  lands  at  Newcastle  —  too  late!  Too  late! 
In  vain  he  casts  the  dory  adrift ;  she  wTill  not  float 
away  ;  the  flood  tide  bears  her  back  to  give  her 
testimony  against  him,  and  afterward  she  is  found 
at  Jaffrey's  Point,  near  the  "  Devil's  Den,"  and  the 
fact  of  her  worn  thole-pins  noted.  Wet,  covered  with 
ice  from  the  spray  which  has  flown  from  his  eager 
oars,  utterly  exhausted,  he  creeps  to  a  knoll  and 
reconnoitres ;  he  thinks  he  is  unobserved,  and  crawls 
on  towards  Portsmouth.  But  he  is  seen  and  recog 
nized  by  many  persons,  and  his  identity  established 
beyond  a  doubt.  He  goes  to  the  house  of  Mathew 
Jonsen,  where  he  has  been  living,  steals  up-stairs, 
changes  his  clothes,  and  appears  before  the  family, 
anxious,  frightened,  agitated,  telling  Jonsen  he 
never  felt  so  badly  in  his  life ;  that  he  has  got  into 
trouble  and  is  afraid  he  shall  be  taken.  He  cannot 
eat  at  breakfast,  says  "  farewell  forever,"  goes  away 
and  is  shaved,  and  takes  the  train  to  Boston,  where 
he  provides  himself  with  new  clothes,  shoes,  a 
complete  outfit,  but  lingering,  held  by  fate,  he 


A    MEMORABLE  MURDER.  159 

cannot  fly,  and  before  night  the  officer's  hand  is  on 
his  shoulder  and  he  is  arrested. 

Meanwhile  poor  shuddering  Maren  on  the  lonely 
island,  by  the  water-side,  waits  till  the  sun  is  high 
in  heaven  before  she  dares  to  come  forth.  She 
thinks  he  may  be  still  on  the  island.  She  said  to 
me,  "  I  thought  he  must  be  there,  dead  or  alive.  I 
thought  he  might  go  crazy  and  kill  himself  after 
having  done  all  that."  At  last  she  steals  out.  The 
little  dog  frisks  before  her;  it  is  so  cold  her  feet 
cling  to  the  rocks  and  snow  at  every  step,  till  the 
skin  is  fairly  torn  off.  Still  and  frosty  is  the  bright 
morning,  the  water  lies  smiling  and  sparkling,  the 
hammers  of  the  workmen  building  the  new  hotel  on 
Star  Island  sound  through  the  quiet  air.  Being  on 
the  side  of  Smutty-Nose  opposite  Star,  she  waves 
her  skirt,  and  screams  to  attract  their  attention  ; 
they  hear  her,  turn  and  look,  see  a  woman  waving 
a  signal  of  distress,  and,  surprising  to  relate,  turn 
tranquilly  to  their  work  again.  She  realizes  at  last 
there  is  no  hope  in  that  direction  ;  she  must  go 
round  toward  Appledore  in  sight  of  the  dreadful 
house.  Passing  it  afar  off  she  gives  one  swift  glance 
toward  it,  terrified  lest  in  the  broad  sunshine  she 
may  see  some  horrid  token  of  last  night's  work; 
but  all  is  still  and  peaceful.  She  notices  the  cur 
tains  the  three  had  left  up  when  they  went  to  bed  ; 
they  are  now  drawn  down  ;  she  knows  whose  hand 
has  done  this,  and  what  it  hides  from  the  light  of  day. 
Sick  at  heart,  she  makes  her  painful  way  to  the 
northern  edge  of  Malaga,  which  is  connected  with 


160  A   MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

Smutty-Nose  by  the  old  sea-wall.  She  is  directly 
opposite  Appledore  and  the  little  cottage  where 
abide  her  friend  and  countryman,  Jorge  Edvardt 
Ingebertsen,  and  his  wife  and  children.  Only  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  still  ocean  separates  her 
from  safety  and  comfort.  She  sees  the  children 
playing  about  the  door;  she  calls  and  calls.  Will 
no  one  ever  hear  her  ?  Her  torn  feet  torment  her, 
she  is  sore  with  blows  and  perishing  with  cold.  At 
last  her  voice  reaches  the  ears  of  the  children,  who 
run  and  tell  their  father  that  some  one  is  crying 
and  calling ;  looking  across,  he  sees  the  poor  little 
figure  waving  her  arms,  takes  his  dory  and  paddles 
over,  and  with  amazement  recognizes  Maren  in  her 
night-dress,  with  bare  feet  and  streaming  hair,  with 
a  cruel  bruise  upon  her  face,  with  wild  eyes,  dis 
tracted,  half  senseless  with  cold  and  terror.  He 
cries,  "  Maren,  Maren,  who  has  done  this  ?  what  is 
it?  who  is  it?"  and  her  only  answer  is  u  Louis, 
Louis,  Louis  !"  as  he  takes  her  on  board  his  boat 
and  rows  home  with  her  as  fast  as  he  can.  From 
her  incoherent  statement  he  learns  what  has  hap 
pened.  Leaving  her  in  the  care  of  his  family,  he 
comes  over  across  the  hill  to  the  great  house  on 
Appledore.  As  I  sit  at  my  desk  I  see  him  pass  the 
window,  and  wonder  why  the  old  man  comes  so 
fast  and  anxiously  through  the  heavy  snow. 

Presently  I  see  him  going  back  again,  accom 
panied  by  several  of  his  own  countrymen  and  others 
of  our  workmen,  carrying  guns.  They  are  going 
to  Smutty-Nose,  and  take  arms,  thinking  it  possible 


A   MEMORABLE  MURDER.  161 

Wagner  may  yet  be  there.  I  call  down- stairs, 
"What  has  happened?"  and  am  answered,  "Some 
trouble  at  Smutty-Nose;  we  hardly  understand." 
"  Probably  a  drunken  brawl  of  the  reckless  fisher 
men  who  may  have  landed  there,"  I  say  to  myself, 
and  go  on  with  my  work.  In  another  half-hour  I 
see  the  men  returning,  reinforced  by  others,  com 
ing  fast,  confusedly ;  and  suddenly  a  wail  of  anguish 
comes  up  from  the  women  below.  I  cannot  be 
lieve  it  when  I  hear  them  crying,  "  Karen  is  dead  ! 
Anethe  is  dead !  Louis  Wagner  has  murdered 
them  both  !"  I  run  out  into  the  servants'  quarters; 
there  are  all  the  men  assembled,  an  awe-stricken 
crowd.  Old  Ingebertsen  comes  forward  and  tells 
me  the  bare  facts,  and  how  Maren  lies  at  his  house, 
half-crazy,  suffering  with  her  torn  and  frozen  feet. 
Then  the  men  are  dispatched  to  search  Appledore, 
to  find  if  by  any  chance  the  murderer  might  be 
concealed  about  the  place,  and  I  go  over  to  Maren 
to  see  if  I  can  do  anything  for  her.  I  find  the 
women  and  children  with  frightened  faces  at  the 
little  cottage ;  as  I  go  into  the  room  where  Maren 
lies,  she  catches  my  hands,  crying,  "  Oh,  I  so  glad 
to  see  you  !  I  so  glad  I  save  my  life!"  and  with 
her  dry  lips  she  tells  me  all  the  story  as  I  have  told 
it  here.  Poor  little  creature,  holding  me  with  those 
wild,  glittering,  dilated  eyes,  she  cannot  tell  me 
rapidly  enough  the  whole  horrible  tale.  Upon  her 
cheek  is  yet  the  blood-stain  from  the  blow  he  struck 
her  with  a  chair,  and  she  shows  me  two  more  upon 
her  shoulder,  and  her  torn  feet.  I  go  back  for 


1 62  A   MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

arnica  with  which  to  bathe  them.  What  a  mockery 
seems  to  me  the  "  jocund  day"  as  I  emerge  into  the 
sunshine,  and  looking  across  the  space  of  blue, 
sparkling  water,  see  the  house  wherein  all  that 
horror  lies  ! 

Oh,  brightly  shines  the  morning  sun  and  glitters 
on  the  white  sails  of  the  little  vessel  that  comes 
dancing  back  from  Portsmouth  before  the  favor 
ing  wind,  with  the  two  husbands  on  board  !  How 
glad  they  are  for  the  sweet  morning  and  the  fair 
wind  that  brings  them  home  again  !  And  Ivan 
sees  in  fancy  Anethe's  face  all  beautiful  with  wel 
coming  smiles,  and  John  knows  how  happy  his 
good  and  faithful  Maren  will  be  to  see  him  back 
again.  Alas,  how  little  they  dream  what  lies  before 
them  !  From  Appledore  they  are  signalled  to  come 
ashore,  and  Ivan  and  Mathew,  landing,  hear  a  con 
fused  rumor  of  trouble  from  tongues  that  hardly 
can  frame  the  words  that  must  tell  the  dreadful 
truth.  Ivan  only  understands  that  something  is 
wrong.  His  one  thought  is  for  Anethe  ;  he  flies  to 
Ingebertsen's  cottage,  she  may  be  there ;  he  rushes 
in  like  a  maniac,  crying,  "Anethe,  Anethe  !  Where 
is  Anethe?"  and  broken-hearted  Maren  answers 
her  brother,  "  Anethe  is — at  home."  He  does  not 
wait  for  another  word,  but  seizes  the  little  boat  and 
lands  at  the  same  time  with  John  on  Smutty-Nose  ; 
with  headlong  haste  they  reach  the  house,  other 
men  accompanying  them  ;  ah,  there  are  blood-stains 
all  about  the  snow  !  Ivan  is  the  first  to  burst  open 
the  door  and  enter.  What  words  can  tell  it  !  There 


A   MEMORABLE   MURDER.  163 

upon  ihc  floor,  naked,  stiff  and  stark,  is  the  woman 
he  idolizes,  for  whose  dear  feet  he  could  not  make 
life's  ways  smooth  and  pleasant  enough — stone 
dead  !  Dead — horribly  butchered  !  her  bright  hair 
stiff  with  blood,  the  fair  head  that  had  so  often 
rested  on  his  breast  crushed,  cloven,  mangled  with 
the  brutal  ax  !  Their  eyes  are  blasted  by  the  intol 
erable  sight :  both  John  and  Ivan  stagger  out  and 
fall,  senseless,  in  the  snow.  Poor  Ivan  !  his  wife  a 
thousand  times  adored,  the  dear  girl  he  had  brought 
from  Norway,  the  good,  sweet  girl  who  loved  him 
so,  whom  he  could  not  cherish  tenderly  enough  ! 
And  he  was  not  there  to  protect  her  !  There  was 
no  one  there  to  save  her  ! 

"  Did  heaven  look  on 
And  would  not  take  their  part  !" 

Poor  fellow,  what  had  he  done  that  fate  should  deal 
him  such  a  blow  as  this  !  Dumb,  blind  with 
anguish,  he  made  no  sign. 

"  What  says  the  body  when  they  spring 
Some  monstrous  torture-engine's  whole 
Strength  on  it?     No  more  says  the  soul." 

Some  of  his  pitying  comrades  lead  him  away,  like 
one  stupefied,  and  take  him  back  to  Appledore. 
John  knows  his  wife  is  safe.  Though  stricken  with 
horror  and  consumed  with  wrath,  he  is  not  paralyz 
ed  like  poor  Ivan,  who  has  been  smitten  with  worse 
than  death.  They  find  Karen's  body  in  another 
part  of  the  house,  covered  with  blows  and  black  in 
the  face,  strangled.  They  find  Louis's  tracks, — all 


1 64  A   MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

the  tokens  of  his  disastrous  presence, — the  contents 
of  trunks  and  drawers  scattered  about  in  his  hasty 
search  for  the  money,  and  all  within  the  house  and 
without,  blood,  blood,  everywhere. 

When  I  reach  the  cottage  with  the  arnica  for 
Maren,  they  have  returned  to  Smutty-Nose.  John, 
her  husband,  is  there.  He  is  a  young  man  of  the 
true  Norse  type,  blue-eyed,  fair-haired,  tall  and 
well  made,  with  handsome  teeth  and  bronzed  beard. 
Perhaps  he  is  a  little  quiet  and  undemonstrative 
generally,  but  at  this  moment  he  is  superb,  kindled 
from  head  to  feet,  a  firebrand  of  woe  and  wrath, 
with  eyes  that  flash  and  cheeks  that  burn.  I  speak 
a  few  words  to  him, — what  words  can  meet  such  an 
occasion  as  this  ! — and  having  given  directions  about 
the  use  of  the  arnica,  for  Maren,  I  go  away,  for 
nothing  more  can  be  done  for  her,  and  every  com 
fort  she  needs  is  hers.  The  outer  room  is  full  of 
men  ;  they  make  way  for  me,  and  as  I  pass  through 
I  catch  a  glimpse  of  Ivan  crouched  with  his  arms 
thrown  round  his  knees  and  his  head  bowed  down 
between  them,  motionless,  his  attitude  expressing 
such  abandonment  of  despair  as  cannot  be  describ 
ed.  His  whole  person  seems  to  shrink,  as  if  depre 
cating  the  blow  that  has  fallen  upon  him. 

All  day  the  slaughtered  women  lie  as  they  were 
found,  for  nothing  can  be  touched  till  the  officers  of 
the  law  have  seen  the  whole.  And  John  goes  back 
to  Portsmouth  to  tell  his  tale  to  the  proper  author 
ities.  What  a  different  voyage  from  the  one  he  had 
just  taken,  when  happy  and  careless  he  was  return- 


A    MEMORABLE   MURDER.  165 

ing  to  the  home  he  had  left  so  full  of  peace  and 
comfort !  What  a  load  he  bears  back  with  him,  as 
he  makes  his  tedious  way  across  the  miles  that  sep 
arate  him  from  the  means  of  vengeance  he  burns  to 
reach  !  But  at  last  he  arrives,  tells  his  story,  the  po 
lice  at  other  cities  are  at  once  telegraphed,  and  the 
city  marshal  follows  Wagner  to  Boston.  At  eight 
o'clock  that  evening  comes  the  steamer  Mayflower 
to  the  Shoals,  with  all  the  officers  on  board.  They 
land  and  make  investigations  at  Smutty-Nose,  then 
come  here  to  Appledore  and  examine  Maren,  and, 
when  everything  is  done,  steam  back  to  Portsmouth, 
which  they  reach  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
After  all  are  gone  and  his  awful  day's  work  is 
finished  at  last,  poor  John  comes  back  to  Maren, 
and  kneeling  by  the  side  of  her  bed,  he  is  utterly  over 
powered  with  what  he  has  passed  through;  he  is 
shaken  with  sobs  as  he  cries,  "  Oh,  Maren,  Maren,  it 
is  too  much,  too  much  !  I  cannot  bear  it !"  And 
Maren  throws  her  arms  about  his  neck,  crying, 
"  Oh,  John,  John,  don't !  I  shall  be  crazy,  I  shall 
die,  if  you  go  on  like  that."  Poor  innocent,  un 
happy  people,  who  never  wronged  a  fellow-creature 
in  their  lives ! 

But  Ivan — what  is  their  anguish  to  his  ?  They 
dare  not  leave  him  alone  lest  he  do  himself  an  in 
jury.  He  is  perfectly  mute  and  listless  ;  he  cannot 
weep,  he  can  neither  eat  nor  sleep.  He  sits  like  one 
in  a  horrid  dream.  "  Oh,  my  poor,  poor  brother!" 
Maren  cries  in  tones  of  deepest  grief,  when  I  speak 
his  name  to  her  next  day.  She  herself  cannot  rest 


1 66  A   MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

a  moment  till  she  hears  that  Louis  is  taken;  at 
every  sound  her  crazed  imagination  fancies  he  is 
coming  back  for  her ;  she  is  fairly  beside  herself  with 
terror  and  anxiety  ;  but  the  night  following  that  of 
the  catastrophe  brings  us  news  that  he  is  arrested, 
and  there  is  stern  rejoicing  at  the  Shoals ;  but  no 
vengeance  on  him  can  bring  back  those  unoffending 
lives,  or  restore  that  gentle  home.  The  dead  are 
properly  cared  for ;  the  blood  is  washed  from  Ane- 
the's  beautiful  bright  hair ;  she  is  clothed  in  her  wed 
ding-dress,  the  blue  dress  in  which  she  was  married, 
poor  child,  that  happy  Christmas  time  in  Norway, 
a  little  more  than  a  year  ago.  They  are  carried 
across  the  sea  to  Portsmouth,  the  burial  service  is 
read  over  them,  and  they  are  hidden  in  the  earth. 
After  poor  Ivan  has  seen  the  faces  of  his  wife  and 
sister  still  and  pale  in  their  coffins,  their  ghastly 
wounds  concealed  as  much  as  possible,  flowers  upon 
them  and  the  priest  praying  over  them,  his  trance  of 
misery  is  broken,  the  grasp  of  despair  is  loosened  a 
little  about  his  heart.  Yet  hardly  does  he  notice 
whether  the  sun  shines  or  no,  or  care  whether  he 
lives  or  dies.  Slowly  his  senses  steady  themselves 
from  the  effects  of  a  shock  that  nearly  destroyed 
him,  and  merciful  time,  with  imperceptible  touch, 
softens  day  by  day  the  outlines  of  that  picture,  at 
the  memory  of  which  he  will  never  cease  to  shudder 
while  he  lives. 

Louis  Wagner  was  captured  in  Boston  on  the 
evening  of  the  next  day  after  his  atrocious  deed, 
and  Friday  morning,  followed  by  a  hooting  mob, 


A    MEMORABLE   MUXDER.  167 

he  was  taken  to  the  Eastern  depot.  At  every  station 
along  the  route  crowds  were  assembled,  and  there 
were  fierce  cries  for  vengeance.  At  the  depot  in 
Portsmouth  a  dense  crowd  of  thousands  of  both 
sexes  had  gathered,  who  assailed  him  with  yells  and 
curses  and  cries  of  "Tear  him  to  pieces!"  It  was 
with  difficulty  he  was  at  last  safely  imprisoned. 
Poor  Maren  was  taken  to  Portsmouth  from  Apple- 
dore  on  that  day.  The  story  of  Wagner's  day  in 
Boston,  like  every  other  detail  of  the  affair,  has 
been  told  by  every  newspaper  in  the  country  :  his 
agitation  and  restlessness,  noted  by  all  who  saw 
him ;  his  curious,  reckless  talk.  To  one  he  says, 
"  I  have  just  killed  two  sailors;"  to  another,  Jacob 
Toldtman,  into  whose  shop  he  goes  to  buy  shoes,  "  I 
have  seen  a  woman  lie  as  still  as  that  boot,"  and  so 
on.  When  he  is  caught  he  puts  on  a  bold  face  and 
determines  to  brave  it  out  ;  denies  everything  with 
tears  and  virtuous  indignation.  The  men  whom  he 
has  so  fearfully  wronged  are  confronted  with  him  ; 
his  attitude  is  one  of  injured  innocence;  he  surveys 
them  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  while  John  is 
on  fire  with  wrath  and  indignation,  and  hurls  male 
dictions  at  him  ;  but  Ivan,  poor  Ivan,  hurt  beyond 
all  hope  or  help,  is  utterly  rnute ;  he  does  not  utter 
one  word.  Of  what  use  is  it  to  curse  the  murderer 
of  his  wife  ?  It  will  not  bring  her  back  ;  he  has  no 
heart  for  cursing,  he  is  too  completely  broken. 
Maren  told  me  the  first  time  she  was  brought  into 
Louis's  presence,  her  heart  leaped  so  fast  she  could 
hardly  breathe.  She  entered  the  room  softly  with 


1 68  A    MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

her  husband  and  Mathew  Jonsen'  s  daughter.  Louis 
was  whittling  a  stick.  He  looked  up  and  saw  her 
face,  and  the  color  ebbed  out  of  his,  and  rushed 
back  and  stood  in  one  burning  spot  in  his  cheek, 
as  he  looked  at  her  and  she  looked  at  him  for  a 
space,  in  silence.  Then  he  drew  about  his  evil 
mind  the  detestable  garment  of  sanctimoniousness, 
and  in  sentimental  accents  he  murmured,  ''I'm 
glad  Jesus  loves  me!"  "The  devil  loves  you!" 
cried  John,  with  uncompromising  veracity.  "I 
know  it  wasn't  nice,"  said  decorous  Maren,  "but 
John  couldn't  help  it ;  it  was  too  much  to  bear  !" 

The  next  Saturday  afternoon,  when  he  was  to  be 
taken  to  Saco,  hundreds  of  fishermen  came  to  Ports 
mouth  from  all  parts  of  the  coast,  determined  on 
his  destruction,  and  there  was  a  fearful  scene  in  the 
quiet  streets  of  that  peaceful  city  when  he  was  be 
ing  escorted  to  the  train  by  the  police  and  various 
officers  of  justice.  Two  thousand  people  had  as 
sembled,  and  such  a  furious,  yelling  crowd  was 
never  seen  or  heard  in  Portsmouth.  The  air  was 
rent  with  cries  for  vengeance ;  showers  of  bricks 
and  stones  were  thrown  from  all  directions,  and 
wounded  several  of  the  officers  who  surrounded 
Wagner.  His  knees  trembled  under  him,  he  shook 
like  an  aspen,  and  the  officers  found  it  necessary  to 
drag  him  along,  telling  him  he  must  keep  up  if  he 
would  save  his  life.  Except  that  they  feared  to  in 
jure  the  innocent  as  well  as  the  guilty,  those  men 
would  have  literally  torn  him  to  pieces.  But  at 
last  he  was  put  on  board  the  cars  in  safety,  and 


A   MEMORABLE  MURDER.  169 

carried  away  to  prison.  His  demeanor  throughout 
the  term  of  his  confinement,  and  during  his  trial 
and  subsequent  imprisonment,  was  a  wonderful 
piece  of  acting.  He  really  inspired  people  with 
doubt  as  to  his  guilt.  I  make  an  extract  from  the 
Portsmouth  Chronicle,  dated  March  i3th,  1873: 
"  Wagner  still  retains  his  amazing  sangfroid,  which 
is  wonderful,  even  in  a  strong-nerved  German. 
The  sympathy  of  most  of  the  visitors  at  his  jail  has 
certainly  been  won  by  his  calmness  and  his  general 
appearance,  which  is  quite  prepossessing."  This 
little  instance  of  his  method  of  proceeding  I  must 
subjoin  :  A  lady  who  had  come  to  converse  with 
him  on  the  subject  of  his  eternal  salvation  said,  as 
she  left  him,  "  I  hope  you  put  your  trust  in  the 
Lord,"  to  which  he  sweetly  answered,  "  I  always 
did,  ma'am,  and  I  always  sha'll." 

A  few  weeks  after  all  this  had  happened,  I  sat  by 
the  window  one  afternoon,  and,  looking  up  from 
my  work,  I  saw  some  one  passing  slowly, — a  young 
man  who  seemed  so  thin,  so  pale,  so  bent  and  ill, 
that  I  said,  "  Here  is  some  stranger  who  is  so  very 
sick,  he  is  probably  come  to  try  the  effect  of  the 
air,  even  thus  early."  It  was  Ivan  Christensen. 
I  did  not  recognize  him.  He  dragged  one  foot  after 
the  other  wearily,  and  walked  with  the  feeble  mo 
tion  of  an  old  man.  He  entered  the  house ;  his 
errand  was  to  ask  for  work.  He  could  not  bear  to 
go  away  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  place  where 
Anethe  had  lived  and  where  they  had  been  so  hap 
py,  and  he  could  not  bear  to  work  at  fishing  on  the 


1 70  A    MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

south  side  of  the  island,  within  sight  of  that  house. 
There  was  work  enough  for  him  here ;  a  kind  voice 
told  him  so,  a  kind  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder, 
and  he  was  bidden  come  and  welcome.  The  tears 
rushed  into  the  poor  fellow's  eyes,  he  went  hastily 
away,  and  that  night  sent  over  his  chest  of  tools, — 
he  was  a  carpenter  by  trade.  Next  day  he  took  up 
his  abode  here  and  worked  all  summer.  Every  day 
I  carefully  observed  him  as  I  passed  him  by,  re 
garding  him  with  an  inexpressible  pity,  of  which 
he  was  perfectly  unconscious,  as  he  seemed  to  be 
of  everything  and  everybody.  He  never  raised  his 
head  when  he  answered  my  "  Good-morning,"  or 
"Good-evening,  Ivan."  Though  I  often  wished  to 
speak,  I  never  said  more  to  him,  for  he  seemed  to 
me  to  be  hurt  too  sorely  to  be  touched  by  human 
hand.  With  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  and  wearily 
dragging  his  limbs,  he  pushed  the  plane  or  drove 
the  saw  to  and  fro  with  a  kind  of  dogged  persist 
ence,  looking  neither  to  the  left  nor  right.  Well 
might  the  weight  of  woe  he  carried  bow  him  to  the 
earth  !  By  and  by  he  spoke,  himself,  to  other  mem 
bers  of  the  household,  saying,  with  a  patient  sorrow, 
he  believed  it  was  to  have  been,  it  had  so  been  or 
dered,  else  why  did  all  things  so  play  into  Louis's 
hands  ?  All  things  were  furnished  him  :  the  knowl 
edge  of  the  unprotected  state  of  the  women,  a  per 
fectly  clear  field  in  which  to  carry  out  his  plans, 
just  the  right  boat  he  wanted  in  which  to  make  his 
voyage,  fair  tide,  fair  wind,  calm  sea,  just  moonlight 
enough  ;  even  the  ax  with  which  to  kill  Anethe 


A   MEMORABLE  MURDER,  171 

stood  ready  to  his  hand  at  the  house  door.  Alas, 
it  was  to  have  been  !  Last  summer  Ivan  went  back 
again  to  Norway — alone.  Hardly  is  it  probable 
that  he  will  ever  return  to  a  land  whose  welcome 
to  him  fate  made  so  horrible.  His  sister  Maren  and 
her  husband  still  live  blameless  lives,  with  the  little 
dog  Ringe,  in  a  new  home  they  have  made  for 
themselves  in  Portsmouth,  not  far  from  the  river 
side  ;  the  merciful  lapse  of  days  and  years  takes 
them  gently  but  surely  away  from  the  thought  of 
that  season  of  anguish ;  and  though  they  can  never 
forget  it  all,  they  have  grown  resigned  and  quiet 
again.  And  on  the  island  other  Norwegians  have 
settled,  voices  of  charming  children  sound  sweetly 
in  the  solitude  that  echoed  so  awfully  to  the  shrieks 
of  Karen  and  Maren.  But  to  the  weirdness  of  the 
winter  midnight  something  is  added,  a  vision  of 
two  dim,  reproachful  shades  who  watch  while  an 
agonized  ghost  prowls  eternally  about  the  dilapi 
dated  houses  at  the  beach's  edge,  close  by  the  black, 
whispering  water,  seeking  for  the  woman  who  has 
escaped  him — escaped  to  bring  upon  him  the  death 
he  deserves,  whom  he  never,  never,  never  can  find, 
though  his  distracted  spirit  may  search  till  man  shall 
vanish  from  off  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  time  shall 
be  no  more. 


VENETIAN  GLASS. 

BY    BRANDER    MATTHEWS. 
I. 

IN    THE    OLD    WORLD. 

THEY  had  been  to  the  Lido  for  a  short  swim  in 
the  slight  but  bracing  surf  of  the  Adriatic. 
They  had  had  a  midday  breakfast  in  a  queer  little 
restaurant,  known  only  to  the  initiated  and  there 
fore  early  discovered  by  Larry,  who  had  a  keen 
scent  for  a  cook  learned  in  the  law.  They  had 
loitered  along  the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni,  looking 
at  a  perambulatory  puppet-show,  before  which  a 
delighted  audience  sturdily  disregarded  the  sharp 
wind  which  bravely  fluttered  the  picturesque  tat 
ters  of  the  spectators  ;  and  they  were  moved  to 
congratulate  the  Venetians  on  their  freedom  from 
the  monotonous  repertory  of  the  Anglo-American 
Punch-and-Judy,  which  consists  solely  of  a  play 
really  unique  in  the  exact  sense  of  that  much- 

»*»  Hitherto  unpublished. 


VENETIAN  GLASS.  173 

abused  word.  They  were  getting  their  fill  of  the 
delicious  Italian  art  which  is  best  described  by  an 
American  verb — to  loaf.  And  yet  they  were  not 
wont  to  be  idle,  and  they  had  both  the  sharp,  quick 
American  manner,  on  which  laziness  sits  uneasily 
and  infrequently. 

John  Manning  and  Laurence  Laughton  were 
both  young  New  Yorkers.  Larry — for  so  in  youth 
was  he  called  by  everybody  pending  the  arrival  of 
years  which  should  make  him  a  universal  uncle,  to 
be  known  of  all  men  as  "  Uncle  Larry" — was  as 
pleasant  a  travelling  companion  as  one  could  wish. 
He  was  the  only  son  and  heir  of  a  father,  now  no 
more,  but  vaguely  understood  when  alive  and  in 
the  flesh  to  have  been  "  in  the  China  trade" — 
although  whether  this  meant  crockery  or  Cathay 
no  one  was  able  with  precision  to  declare.  Larry 
Laughton  had  been  graduated  from  Columbia  Col 
lege  with  the  class  of  1860,  and  the  following 
spring  found  him  here  in  Venice  after  a  six 
months'  ramble  through  Europe  with  his  old 
friend,  John  Manning,  partly  on  foot  and  partly  in 
an  old  carriage  of  their  own,  in  which  they  enjoyed 
the  fast-vanishing  pleasures  of  posting. 

John  Manning  was  a  little  older  than  Larry  ;  he 
had  left  West  Point  in  1854  with  a  commission  as 

second  lieutenant  in    the first    Cavalry.     For 

nearly  six  years  he  did  his  duty  in  that  state  of  life 
in  which  it  pleased  the  Secretary  of  War  and 
General  Scott  to  call  him  ;  he  had  crossed  the 
plains  one  bleak  winter  to  a  post  in  the  Rocky 


174  VENETIAN  GLASS. 

Mountains,  and  he  had  danced  through  two  sum 
mers  at  Fort  Adams  at  Newport  ;  he  had  been 
stationed  for  a  while  in  New  Mexico,  where  there 
was  an  abundance  of  the  pleasant  sport  of  Indian- 
fighting — even  now  he  had  only  to  make  believe  a 
little  to  see  the  tufted  head  of  a  Navajo  peer 
around  the  columns  supporting  the  Lion  of  Saint 
Mark,  or  to  mistake  the  fringe  of  facchini  on  -the 
edge  of  the  Grand  Canal  for  a  group  of  the  shift 
less  half-breeds  of  New  Mexico.  In  time  the 

first   Cavalry  had   been   ordered   North,  where 

the  work  was  then  less  pleasant  than  on  the  border  ; 
and,  in  fact,  it  was  a  distinct  unwillingness  to  ex 
ecute  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law  which  forced  John 
Manning  to  resign  his  commission  in  the  army, 
although  it  was  the  hanging  of  John  Brown  which 
drew  from  him  the  actual  letter  of  resignation. 
Before  settling  down  to  other  work,  for  he  was  a 
man  who  could  not  and  would  not  be  idle,  he  had 
gratified  his  long  desire  of  taking  a  turn  through 
the  Old  World.  Larry  Laughton  had  joined  him 
in  Holland,  where  he  had  been  making  researches 
into  the  family  history,  and  proving  to  his  own 
satisfaction  at  least  that  the  New  York  Mannings, 
in  spite  of  their  English  name,  had  come  from 
Amsterdam  to  New  Amsterdam.  And  now,  toward 
the  end  of  April,  1861,  John  Manning  and  Lau 
rence  Laughton  stood  on  the  Rialto,  hesitating  Fra 
Marco  e  Todaro,  as  the  Venetians  have  it,  in  unin 
terested  question  whether  they  should  go  into  the 
Ghetto,  among  the  hideous  homes  of  the  chosen 


VENETIAN  GLASS.  175 

people,  or  out  again  to  Murano  for  a  second  visit 
to  the  famous  factory  of  Venetian  glass. 

"  I  say,  John,"  remarked  Larry  as  they  lazily 
debated  the  question,  gazing  meanwhile  on  the 
steady  succession  of  gondolas  coming  and  going 
to  and  from  the  steps  by  the  side  of  the  bridge, 
"  I'd  as  lief  if  not  liefer  go  to  Murano  again,  if 
they've  any  of  their  patent  anti-poison  goblets 
left.  You  know  they  say  they  used  to  make  a 
glass  so  fine  that  it  was  shattered  into  shivers 
whenever  poison  might  be  poured  into  it.  Of 
course  I  don't  believe  it,  but  a  glass  like  that 
would  be  mighty  handy  in  the  sample-rooms  of 
New  York.  I'm  afraid  a  man  walking  up  Broad 
way  could  use  up  a  gross  of  the  anti-poison  goblets 
before  he  got  one  straight  drink  of  the  genuine 
article,  unadulterated  and  drawn  from  the  wood." 

"  You  must  not  make  fun  of  a  poetic  legend, 
Larry.  You  have  to  believe  everything  over  here 
or  you  do  not  get  the  worth  of  your  money,"  said 
John  Manning. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  was  Larry's  reply  ;  "  I 
don't  know  just  what  to  believe.  I  was  talking 
about  it  last  night  at  Florian's,  while  you  were 
writing  letters  home." 

"  I  did  not  know  Mr.  Laughton  had  friends  in 
Venice." 

"Oh,  I  can  make  friends  anywhere.  And  this 
one  was  lots  of  fun.  He  was  a  priest,  an  abbate,  I 
think  he  calls  himself.  He  had  read  five  news 
papers  in  the  caffe  and  paid  for  one  tiny  cup  cf 


176  VENETIAN  GLASS. 

coffee.  When  I  finished  the  Debats  I  passed  it  to 
him  for  his  sixth — and  he  spoke  to  me  in  French, 
and  I  wasn't  going  to  let  an  Italian  talk  French  to 
me  without  answering  back,  so  I  just  sailed  in  and 
began  to  swap  stories  with  him." 

"  No  doubt  you  gave  him  much  valuable  in 
formation." 

"  Well,  I  did  ;  I  just  exuded  information.  Why, 
the  first  thing  he  said,  when  I  told  him  I  was  an 
American,  was  to  wonder  whether  I  hadn't  met  his 
brother,  who  was  also  in  America — in  Rio  Janeiro 
— just  as  if  Rio  was  the  other  side  of  the  North 
River  !" 

John  Manning  smiled  at  Larry's  disgusted  ex 
pression,  and  asked,  "  What  has  this  abbate  to  do 
with  the  fragile  Venetian  glass  ?" 

"  Only  this,"  answered  Larry.  "  I  told  him  two 
or  three  North-westers,  just  as  well  as  I  could  in 
French,  and  then  he  said  that  marvellous  things 
were  also  done  here  once  upon  a  time.  And  he 
told  me  about  the  glass  which  broke  when  poison 
was  poured  into  it." 

"  It  is  a  pleasant  superstition,"  said  John  Man 
ning.  "  I  think  Poe  makes  use  of  it,  and  I  believe 
Shakespeare  refers  to  it." 

"  But  did  either  Poe  or  Shakespeare  say  any 
thing  about  the  two  goblets  just  alike  made  for  the 
twin  brothers  Manin  nearly  four  hundred  years 
ago  ?  Did  they  tell  you  how  one  glass  was  shivered 
by  poison  and  its  owner  killed,  and  how  the  other 
brother  had  to  flee  for  his  life  ?  Did  they  inform 


VENETIAN  GLASS.  177 

you  that  the  unbroken  goblet  exists  to  this  day, 
and  is  in  fact  now  for  sale  by  an  Hebrew  Jew  who 
peddles  antiquities  ?  Did  they  tell  you  that  ?" 

"  Neither  Edgar  Allan  Poe  nor  William  Shakes 
peare  ever  disturbs  my  slumbers  by  telling  me  any 
thing  of  the  sort,"  laughed  Manning. 

"  Well,  my  abbate  told  me  just  that,  and  he  gave 
me  the  address  of  the  Shylock  who  has  the  surviv 
ing  goblet  for  sale." 

"  Suppose  we  go  there  and  see  it,"  suggested 
Manning,  "  and  you  can  tell  me  the  whole  story 
of  the  twin  brothers  as  we  go  along." 

"  Shall  we  take  a  gondola  or  walk  ?"  was  Larry's 
interrogative  acceptance  of  the  suggestion. 

"  It's  in  the  Ghetto,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Most  of  the  Jew  curiosity  dealers  have  left  the 
Ghetto.  Our  Shylock  has  a  palace  on  the  Grand 
Canal.  I  guess  we  had  better  take  a  gondola, 
though  it  can't  be  far." 

So  they  sat  themselves  down  in  one  of  the 
aquatic  cabs  which  ply  the  water  streets  of  the  city 
in  the  sea.  The  gondolier  stood  to  his  oar  and 
put  his  best  foot  foremost,  and  as  the  boat  sped 
forward  on  its  way  along  the  capital  S  of  the 
Grand  Canal,  Larry  told  the  tale  of  the  twin 
brothers  and  the  shattered  goblet. 

"  Well,  it  seems  that  some  time  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  say  three  hundred  years  ago  or  there 
about,  there  were  several  branches  of  the  great 
and  powerful  Manin  family — the  same  family  to 
which  the  patriotic  Daniele  Manin  belonged,  you 


1 78  VENETIAN  CLASS. 

know.  And  at  the  head  of  one  of  these  branches 
were  the  twin  brothers  Marco  Manin  and  Giovanni 
Manin.  Now,  these  brothers  were  devoted  to  each 
other,  and  they  had  only  one  thought,  one  word, 
one  deed.  When  one  of  them  happened  to  think 
of  a  thing,  it  often  happened  that  the  other  brother 
did  it.  So  it  was  not  surprising  that  they  both  fell 
in  love  with  the  same  woman.  She  was  a  dan 
gerous-looking,  yellow-haired  woman,  with  steel- 
gray  eyes — that  is,  if  her  eyes  were  not  really  green, 
as  to  which  there  was  doubt.  But  there  was  no 
doubt  at  all  that  she  was  powerfully  handsome. 
The  abbate  said  that  there  was  a  famous  portrait  of 
her  in  one  of  these  churches  as  a  Saint  Mary 
Magdalen  with  her  hair  down.  She  was  a  splendid 
creature,  and  lots  of  men  were  running  after  her 
besides  the  twin  Manins.  The  two  brothers  did 
not  quarrel  with  each  other  about  the  woman,  but 
they  did  quarrel  with  some  of  her  other  lovers,  and 
particularly  with  a  nobleman  of  the  highest  rank 
and  power,  who  was  supposed  to  belong  not  only 
to  the  Council  of  Ten  but  to  the  Three.  Between 
this  man  and  the  Manins  there  was  war  to  the 
knife  and  the  knife  to  the  hilt.  One  day  Marco 
Manin  expressed  a  wish  for  one  of  these  goblets  of 
Venetian  glass  so  fine  that  poison  shatters  it,  and 
so  Giovanni  went  out  to  Murano  and  ordered  two 
of  them,  of  the  very  finest  quality,  and  just  alike 
in  every  particular  of  color  and  shape  and  size. 
You  see  the  twins  always  had  everything  in  pairs. 
But  the  people  at  Murano  somehow  misunderstood 


VENETIAN   GLASS,  179 

the  order,  and  although  they  made  both  glasses  they 
sent  home  only  one.  Marco  Man  in  was  at  table 
when  it  arrived,  and  he  took  it  in  his  hand  at  once, 
and  after  admiring  its  exquisite  workmanship — 
you  see,  all  these  old  Venetians  had  the  art-feeling 
strongly  developed — he  told  a  servant  to  fill  it  to 
the  brim  with  Cyprus  wine.  But  as  he  raised  the 
flowing  cup  to  his  lips  it  shivered  in  his  grasp  and 
the  wine  was  spilt  on  the  marble  floor.  He  drew 
his  sword  and  slew  the  servant  who  had  sought  to 
betray  him,  and  rushing  into  the  street  he  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  the  enemy  whom  he  knew 
to  have  instigated  the  attempt.  They  crossed 
swords  at  once,  but  before  Marco  Manin  could 
have  a  fair  fight  for  his  life  he  was  stabbed  in  the 
back  by  a  glass  stiletto,  the  hilt  of  which  was 
broken  off  short  in  the  wound." 

"  Where  was  his  brother  all  this  time  ?"  was  the 
first  question  with  which  John  Manning  broke  the 
thread  of  his  friend's  story. 

"  He  had  been  to  see  the  yellow-haired  beauty, 
and  he  came  back  just  in  time  to  meet  his  brother's 
lifeless  body  as  it  was  carried  into  their  desolate 
home.  Holding  his  dead  brother's  hand  as  he  had 
often  held  it  living,  he  promised  his  brother  to 
avenge  his  death  without  delay  and  at  any  cost. 
Then  he  prepared  at  once  for  flight.  He  knew 
that  Venice  would  be  too  hot  to  hold  him  when  the 
deed  was  done  ;  and  besides,  he  felt  that  without 
his  brother  life  in  Venice  would  be  intolerable.  So 
he  made  ready  for  flight.  Twenty-four  hours  to  a 


igo  VENETIAN  GLASS. 

minute  after  Marco  Manin's  death  the  body  of  the 
hireling  assassin  was  sinking  to  the  bottom  of  the 
Grand  Canal,  while  the  man  who  had  paid  for  the 
murder  lay  dead  on  the  same  spot  with  the  point 
of  a  glass  stiletto  in  his  heart  !  And  when  they 
wanted  to  send  him  the  other  goblet,  there  was  no 
one  to  send  it  to  :  Giovanni  Manin  had  disap 
peared." 

"  Where  had  he  gone  ?"  queried  John  Manning. 

"  That's  what  I  asked  the  abbate,  and  he  said  he 
didn't  know  for  sure,  but  that  in  those  days  Venice 
had  a  sizable  trade  with  the  Low  Countries,  and 
there  was  a  tradition  that  Giovanni  Manin  had 
gone  to  the  Netherlands." 

"  To  Holland  ?"  asked  John  Manning  with  un 
wonted  interest. 

"  Yes,  to  Amsterdam  or  to  Rotterdam  or  to 
some  one  of  those  -dam  towns,  as  we  used  to  call 
them  in  our  geography  class." 

"  It  was  to  Amsterdam,"  said  Manning,  speak 
ing  as  one  who  had  certain  information. 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  asked  Larry. 
"  Even  the  abbate  said  it  was  only  a  tradition  that 
he  had  gone  to  Holland  at  all." 

"  He  went  to  Amsterdam,"  said  Manning;  "  that 
I  know." 

Before  Larry  could  ask  how  it  was  that  his  friend 
knew  anything  about  the  place  of  exile  of  a  man 
whom  he  had  never  heard  of  ten  minutes  earlier, 
the  gondola  had  paused  before  the  door  of  the 
palace  in  which  dwelt  the  dealer  in  antiquities  who 


VENETIAN  GLASS.  181 

had  in  his  possession  the  famous  goblet  of  Venetian 
glass.  As  they  ascended  to  the  sequence  of  ram 
bling  rooms  cluttered  with  old  furniture,  rusty  ar 
mor,  and  odds  and  ends  of  statuary,  in  the  which  the 
modern  Jew  of  Venice  sat  at  the  receipt  of  custom, 
both  Larry  Laughton  and  John  Manning  had  to 
give  their  undivided  attention  to  the  framing  in 
Italian  of  their  wishes.  Shylock  himself  was  a 
venerable  and  benevolent  person,  with  a  look  of 
wonderful  shrewdness  and  an  incomprehensibility 
of  speech,  for  he  spoke  the  Venetian  dialect  with  a 
harsh  Jewish  accent,  either  of  which  would  have 
daunted  a  linguistic  veteran.  Plainly  enough,  con 
versation  was  impossible,  for  he  could  barely  un 
derstand  their  American-Italian,  and  they  could 
not  at  all  understand  his  Jewish-Venetian.  But  it 
would  not  do  to  let  these  Inglesi  go  away  without 
paying  tribute. 

"  Cio  !"  said  Shylock,  smiling  graciously  at  his 
futile  attempts  to  open  communication  with  the 
enemy.  Then  he  called  Jessica  from  the  deep  win 
dow  where  she  had  been  at  work  on  the  quaint  old 
account-books  of  the  shop,  as  great  curiosities  as 
anything  in  it,  since  they  were  kept  in  Venetian, 
but  by  means  of  the  Hebrew  alphabet.  She  spoke 
Italian,  and  to  her  the  young  men  made  known 
their  wants.  She  said  a  few  words  to  her  father, 
and  he  brought  forth  the  goblet. 

It  was  a  marvellous  specimen  of  the  most  exquisite 
Venetian  workmanship.  A  pair  of  green  serpents 
with  eyes  that  glowed  like  fire  writhed  around  the 


182  VENETIAN  GLASS. 

golden  stem  of  a  blood-red  bowl,  and  as  the  white 
light  of  the  cloudless  sky  fell  on  it  from  the  broad 
window,  it  burned  in  the  glory  of  the  sunshine  and 
seemed  to  fill  itself  full  of  some  mysterious  and 
royal  wine.  Shylock  revolved  it  slowly  in  his  hand 
to  show  the  strange  waviness  of  its  texture,  and  as 
it  turned,  the  serpents  clung  more  closely  to  the 
stem  and  arched  their  heads  and  shot  a  glance  of 
hate  at  the  strangers  who  came  to  gaze  on  them 
with  curious  fascination. 

John  Manning  looked  at  the  goblet  long  and 
eagerly.  "  How  did  it  come  into  your  posses 
sion  ?"  he  asked. 

And  Jessica  translated  Shylock's  declaration 
that  the  goblet  had  been  at  Murano  for  hundreds 
of  years  ;  it  was  antico—antichissimo,  as  the  signor 
could  see  for  himself.  It  was  of  the  best  period  of 
the  art.  That  Shylock  would  guarantee.  How 
came  it  into  his  possession  ?  By  the  greatest  good 
fortune.  It  was  taken  from  Murano  during  the 
troubles  after  the  fall  of  the  Republic  in  the  time 
of  Napoleon.  It  had  gone  finally  into  the  hands 
of  a  certain  count,  who,  very  luckily,  was  poor. 
Conte  che  non  conta,  non  conta  niente.  So  Shylock  had 
been  enabled  to  buy  it.  It  had  been  the  desire  of 
his  heart  for  years  to  own  so  fine  an  object. 

"  How  much  do  you  want  for  it?"  asked  John 
Manning. 

Shylock  scented  from  afar  the  battle  of  bargain 
ing,  dear  in  Italy  to  both  buyer  and  seller.  He 
gave  a  keen  look  at  both  the  Jnglesi,  and  took  up 


VENETIAN  GLASS.  183 

the  glass  affectionately,  as  though  he  could  not 
bear  to  part  with  it.  Jessica  interpreted.  Shylock 
had  intended  that  goblet  for  his  own  private  col 
lection,  but  the  frank  and  generous  manner  of  their 
excellencies  had  overcome  him,  and  he  would  let 
them  have  it  for  five  hundred  florins. 

"  Five  hundred  florins  !  Phew  !"  whistled  Larry, 
astonished  in  spite  of  his  initiation  into  the  mys 
teries  of  Italian  bargaining.  "  Well,  if  you  were 
to  ask  me  the  Shakespearian  conundrum,  Hath  not 
a  Jew  eyes  ?  I  shouldn't  give  it  up  ;  I  should  say 
he  has  eyes — for  the  main  chance." 

"  Five  hundred  florins,"  said  John  Manning. 
"  Very  well.  I'll  take  it." 

Shylock's  astonishment  at  getting  four  times 
what  he  would  have  taken  was  equalled  only  by  his 
regret  that  he  had  not  asked  twice  as  much. 

"  Can  you  pack  it  so  that  I  can  take  it  to  New 
York  safely  ?" 

"  Sicuro,  signer,"  and  Shylock  agreed  to  have  the 
precious  object  boxed  with  all  possible  care  and 
despatch,  and  delivered  at  the  hotel  that  afternoon. 

"  Servo  suo  !"  said  Jessica,  as  they  stood  at  the 
door, 

"  Bon  di,  Patron  !"  responded  Larry  in  Vene 
tian  fashion  ;  then  as  the  door  closed  behind  them 
he  said  to  John  Manning,  "  Seems  to  me  you  were 
in  a  hurry  !  You  could  have  had  that  glass  for 
half  the  money." 

"  Perhaps  I  could,"  was  Manning's  quiet  reply, 
"  but  I  was  eager  to  get  it  back  at  once." 


184  VENETIAN  GLASS. 

"  Get  it  back  ?  Why,  it  wasn't  stolen  from  you, 
was  it  ?  I  never  did  suppose  he  came  by  it 
honestly." 

"  It  was  not  stolen  from  me  personally.  But  it 
belonged  to  my  family.  It  was  made  for  Giovanni 
Manin,  who  fled  from  Venice  to  Amsterdam  three 
hundred  odd  years  ago.  His  grandson  and  name 
sake  left  Amsterdam  for  New  Amsterdam  half  a 
century  later.  And  when  the  English  changed 
New  Amsterdam  into  New  York,  Jan  Mannin  be 
came  John  Manning — .and  I  am  his  direct  descend 
ant,  and  the  first  of  my  blood  to  return  to  Venice 
to  get  the  goblet  Giovanni  Manin  ordered  and  left 
behind." 

"  Well,  I'm  damned  !"  said  Larry,  pensively. 

"  And  now,"  continued  John  Manning  as  they 
took  their  seats  in  the  gondola,  "  tell  the  man  to 
go  to  the  church  where  the  picture  of  Mary  Mag 
dalen  is.  I  want  a  good  look  at  that  woman  !" 

In  the  evening,  as  John  Manning  sat  in  a  little 
caffe  under  the  arcades  of  the  Piazza  San  Marco, 
sipping  a  tiny  cup  of  black  coffee,  Larry  entered 
with  a  rush  of  righteous  indignation. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Larry  ?"  was  John  Man 
ning's  calm  query. 

;<  There's  the  devil  to  pay  at  home.  South 
Carolina  has  fired  on  the  flag  at  Sumter." 

Three  weeks  later  Colonel  Manning  was  as 
signed  to  duty  in  the  Army  of  the  Potomac. 


VENETIAN  GLASS.  185 


II. 


IN    THE     NEW    WORLD. 

IN  the  month  of  February,  1864,  a  chance  news 
paper  paragraph  informed  whom  it  might  concern 
that  Major  Laurence  Laughton,  having  three 
weeks'  leave  of  absence  from  his  regiment,  was  at 
the  Astor  House.  In  consequence  of  this  adver 
tisement  of  his  whereabouts,  Major  Laughton  re 
ceived  many  cheerful  circulars  and  letters,  in  most 
of  which  his  attention  was  claimed  for  the  artificial 
limb  made  by  the  advertiser.  He  also  received  a 
letter  from  Colonel  John  Manning  urgently  bid 
ding  him  to  come  out  for  a  day  at  least  to  his 
little  place  on  the  Hudson,  where  he  was  lying  sick, 
and,  as  he  feared,  sick  unto  death.  On  the  receipt 
of  this  Larry  cut  short  a  promising  flirtation  with 
a  war-widow  who  sat  next  him  at  table  and  took 
the  first  train  up  the  river.  It  was  a  bleak  day,  and 
there  was  at  least  a  foot  of  snow  on  the  ground, 
as  hard  and  as  dry  as  though  it  had  clean  forgot 
that  it  was  made  of  water.  As  Larry  left  the  little 
station,  to  which  the  train  had  slowly  struggled  at 
last,  an  hour  behind  time,  the  wind  sprang  up 
again  and  began  to  moan  around  his  feet  and  to 
sting  his  face  with  icy  shot  ;  and  as  he  trudged 
across  the  desolate  path  which  led  to  Manning's 


1 86  VENETIAN  GLASS. 

lonely  house  he  discovered  that  Rude  Boreas  could 
be  as  keen  a  sharpshooter  as  any  in  the  rifle-pits 
around  Richmond.  A  hard  walk  up-hill  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  brought  him  to  the  brow  of  the 
cliff  on  which  stood  the  forlorn  and  wind-swept 
house  where  John  Manning  lay.  An  unkempt  and 
hideous  old  crone  as  black  as  night  opened  the 
door  for  him.  He  left  in  the  hall  his  hat  and  over 
coat  and  a  little  square  box  he  had  brought  in  his 
hand  ;  and  then  he  followed  the  ebony  hag  up-stairs 
to  Colonel  Manning's  room.  Here  at  the  door  she 
left  him,  after  giving  a  sharp  knock.  A  weak  voice 
said,  "  Come  in  !" 

Laurence  Laughton  entered  the  room  with  a  quick 
step,  but  the  light-hearted  words  with  which  he 
had  meant  to  encourage  his  friend  died  on  his  lips 
as  soon  as  he  saw  how  grievously  that  friend  had 
changed.  John  Manning  had  faded  to  a  shadow 
of  his  former  self  ;  the  light  of  his  eye  was 
quenched,  and  the  spirit  within  him  seemed  broken; 
the  fine,  sensitive,  noble  face  lay  white  against  the 
pillow,  looking  weary  and  wan  and  hopeless.  The 
effort  to  greet  his  friend  exhausted  him  and 
brought  on  a  hard  cough,  and  he  pressed  his  hand 
to  his  breast  as  though  some  hidden  malady  were 
gnawing  and  burning  within. 

"  Well,  John,"  said  Larry,  as  he  took  a  seat  by 
the  bedside,  "  why  didn't  you  let  me  know  before 
now  that  you  were  laid  up  ?  I  could  have  got 
away  a  month  ago." 

"  Time  enough  yet,"  said  John  Manning  slowly  ; 


VENETIAN  GLASS.  187 

"  time  enough  yet.  I  shall  not  die  for  another 
week,  I  fear." 

"  Why,  man,  you  must  not  talk  like  that.  You 
are  as  good  as  a  dozen  dead  men  yet,"  said  Larry, 
trying  to  look  as  cheerful  as  might  be. 

"  I  am  as  good  as  dead  myself,"  said  the  sick 
man  seriously,  as  befitted  a  man  under  the  shadow 
of  death  ;  "  and  I  have  no  wish  to  live.  The 
sonner  I  am  out  of  this  pain  and  powerlessness  the 
better  I  shall  like  it." 

"  I  say,  John,  old  man,  this  is  no  way  for  you 
to  talk.  Brace  up,  and  you  will  soon  be  another 
man  !" 

"  I  shall  soon  be  in  another  world,  I  hope,"  and 
the  helpless  misery  of  the  tone  in  which  these  few 
words  were  said  smote  Laurence  Laughton  to  the 
heart. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?"  he  asked  with 
as  lively  an  air  as  he  could  attain,  for  the  ominous 
and  inexplicable  sadness  of  the  situation  was  fast 
taking  hold  on  him. 

"  I  have  a  bullet  through  the  lungs  and  a  pain 
in  the  heart." 

"  But  men  do  not  die  of  a  bullet  in  the  lungs  and 
a  pain  in  the  heart,"  was  Larry's  encouraging 
response. 

"I  shall." 

"  Why  should  you  more  than  others  ?" 

"  Because  there  is  something  else — something: 
mysterious,  some  unknown  malady — which  bears 
me  down  and  burns  me  up.  There  is  no  use  try- 


1 88  VENETIAN  GLASS. 

ing  to  deceive  me,  Larry.  My  papers  are  made 
out,  and  I  shall  get  my  discharge  from  the  Army 
of  the  Living  in  a  very  few  days  now.  But  I  must 
not  waste  the  little  breath  I  have  left  in  talking 
about  myself.  I  sent  for  you  to  ask  a  favor." 

Larry  held  out  his  hand,  and  John  Manning  took 
it  and  seemed  to  gain  strength  from  the  firm  clasp. 

"  I  knew  I  could  rely  on  you,"  he  said,  "  for 
much  or  for  little.  And  this  is  not  much,  for  I 
have  not  much  to  leave.  This  worn  old  house, 
which  belonged  to  my  grandmother,  and  in  which 
I  spent  the  happiest  hours  of  my  boyhood,  this  and 
a  few  shares  of  stock  here  and  there,  are  all  I  have 
to  leave.  I  do  not  know  what  the  house  is  worth 
— and  I  shall  be  glad  when  I  am  gone  from  it.  If 
I  had  not  come  here,  I  think  I  might  perhaps  have 
got  well.  There  seems  to  be  something  deadly 
about  the  place."  The  sick  man's  voice  sank  to  a 
wavering  whisper,  as  though  borne  down  by  a  sud 
den  weight  of  impending  danger  against  which  he 
might  struggle  in  vain  ;  he  gave  a  fearful  glance 
about  the  room  as  though  seeking  a  mystic  foe, 
hidden  and  unknown.  "  The  very  first  day  we 
were  here  the  cat  lapped  its  milk  by  the  fire  and 
then  stretched  itself  out  and  died  without  a  sign. 
And  I  had  not  been  here  two  days  before  I  felt  the 
fatal  influence:  the  trouble  from  my  wound  came 
on  again,  and  this  awful  burning  in  my  breast  be 
gan  to  torture  me.  As  a  boy,  I  thought  that 
heaven  must  be  like  this  house  ;  and  now  I  should 
not  want  to  die  if  I  thought  hell  could  be  worse  !" 


VENETIAN  GLASS.  189 

"  Why  don't  you  leave  the  place,  since  you  hate 
it  so  ?"  asked  Larry,  with  what  scant  cheeriness  he 
could  muster  ;  he  was  yielding  himself  slowly  to 
the  place,  though  he  fought  bravely  against  his 
superstitious  weakness. 

"Am  I  fit  to  be  moved?"  was  the  sick  man's 
query  in  reply. 

"  But  you  will  be  better  soon,  and  then — " 

"  I  shall  be  worse  before  I  am  better,  and  I  shall 
never  be  better  in  this  life  or  in  this  place.  No, 
no,  I  must  die  in  my  hole  like  a  dog.  Like  a 
dog  !"  and  John  Manning  repeated  the  words  with 
a  wistful  face.  "  Do  you  remember  the  faithful 
beast  who  always  welcomed  me  here  when  we  came 
up  before  we  went  to  Europe  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  said  Larry,  glad  to  get  the 
sick  man  away  from  his  sickness,  and  to  ease  his 
mind  by  talk  on  a  healthy  topic  ;  "  he  was  a  splen 
did  fellow,  too.  Cesar,  that  was  his  name,  wasn't 
it  ?" 

"  Cesar  Borgia  I  called  him,"  was  Manning's 
sad  reply.  "  I  knew  you  could  not  have  forgotten 
him.  He  is  dead.  Cesar  Borgia  is  dead.  He 
was  the  last  living  thing  that  loved  me — except 
you,  Larry,  I  know — and  he  is  dead.  He  died  this 
morning.  He  came  to  my  bedside  as  usual,  and 
he  licked  my  hand  gently  and  looked  up  in  my 
face  and  laid  him  down  alongside  of  me  on  the 
carpet  here  and  died.  Poor  Cesar  Borgia — he 
loved  me,  and  he  is  dead  !  And  you,  Larry,  you 
must  not  stay  here.  The  air  is  fatal.  Every 


1 90  VENETIAN  GLASS. 

breath  may  be  your  last.  When  you  have  heard 
what  I  want,  you  must  be  off  at  once.  If  you  like, 
you  may  come  up  again  to  the  funeral  before  your 
leave  is  up.  I  saw  you  had  three  weeks." 

Laurence  Laughton  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair 
and  swallowed  with  difficulty.  "  John,"  he  man 
aged  to  say  after  an  effort,  "  if  you  talk  to  me  like 
that,  I  shall  go  at  once.  Tell  me  what  it  is  you 
want  me  to  do  for  you." 

"  I  want  you  to  take  care  of  my  wife  and  of  my 
child,  if  there  be  one  born  to  me  after  my  death." 

"Your  wife?"  repeated  Larry,  in  staring  sur 
prise. 

'  You  did  not  know  I  was  married  ?  I  knew  it 
at  the  time,  as  the  boy  said,"  and  John  Manning 
smiled  bitterly. 

"  Where  is  she  ?"   was  Larry's  second  query. 

"  Here." 

11  Here?" 

"  In  this  house.  You  shall  see  her  before  you 
go.  And  after  the  funeral  I  want  you  to  get  her 
away  from  here  with  what  speed  you  can.  Sell 
this  house  for  what  it  will  bring,  and  put  the  money 
into  government  bonds.  You  may  find  it  hard  to 
persuade  her  to  move,  for  she  seems  to  have  a 
strange  liking  for  this  place.  She  breathes  freely 
in  the  deadly  air  that  suffocates  me.  But  you  must 
not  let  her  remain  here  ;  this  is  no  place  for  her  now 
that  a  new  life  and  new  duties  are  before  her." 

"  How  was  it  I  did  not  know  of  your  marriage  ?" 
asked  Larry. 


VENETIAN   GLASS.  191 

"  I  knew  nothing  about  it  myself  twenty-four 
hours  before  it  happened,"  answered  John  Man 
ning.  "  You  need  not  look  surprised.  It  is  a 
simple  story.  I  had  this  shot  through  the  breast 
at  Gettysburg  last  Fourth  of  July.  I  lay  on  the 
hillside  a  day  and  a  night  before  relief  came. 
Then  a  farmer  took  me  into  his  house.  A  military 
surgeon  dressed  my  wounds,  but  I  owed  my  life  to 
the  nursing  and  care  and  unceasing  attention  of  a 
young  lady  who  was  staying  with  the  farmer's 
daughter.  She  had  been  doing  her  duty  as  a  nurse 
as  near  to  the  field  as  she  could  go  ever  since  the 
first  Bull  Run.  She  saved  my  life,  and  I  gave  it  to 
her — what  there  was  of  it.  She  was  a  beautiful 
woman,  indeed  I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful — and 
she  has  a  strange  likeness  to — but  that  you  shall 
see  for  yourself  when  you  see  her.  She  is  getting 
a  little  rest  now,  for  she  has  been  up  all  night  at 
tending  to  me.  She  will  wait  on  me  in  spite  of  all 
I  say  ;  of  course  I  know  there  is  no  use  wasting 
effort  on  me  now.  She  is  the  most  devoted  nurse 
in  the  world  ;  and  we  shall  part  as  we  met — she 
taking  care  of  me  at  the  last  as  she  did  at  the  first. 
Would  God  our  relation  had  never  been  other  than 
patient  and  nurse  !  It  would  have  been  better  for 
both  had  we  never  been  husband  and  wife  !"  And 
John  Manning  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  with  a 
weary  sigh  ;  then  he  coughed  harshly  and  raised 
his  hand  to  his  breast  as  though  to  stifle  the  burn 
ing  within  him. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  John,  that  you  ought  not  to 


192  VENETIAN  GLASS. 

talk  like  that  of  the  woman  you  loved,"  said 
Laurence  Laughton,  with  unusual  seriousness. 

"  I  never  loved  her,"  answered  Manning,  coldly. 
Then  he  turned  and  asked  hastily,  "  Do  you  think 
I  should  want  to  die,  if  I  loved  her  ?" 

"  But  she  loves  you,"  said  Laurence. 

"  She  never  loved  me  !"  was  Manning's  im 
patient  retort. 

"  Then  why  were  you  married  ?" 

"  That's  what  I  would  like  to  know.  It  was 
fate,  I  suppose.  What  is  to  be,  is.  I  never  used 
to  believe  in  predestination,  but  I  know  that  of  my 
own  free  will  I  could  never  have  done  what  I 
did." 

"  I  confess  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said 
Larry. 

"  I  do  not  understand  myself.  There  is  so  much 
in  this  world  that  is  mysterious — I  hope  the  next 
will  be  different.  I  was  under  the  charm,  I  fancy, 
when  I  married  her.  She  is  a  beautiful  woman,  as 
I  told  you,  and  I  was  a  man,  and  I  was  weak,  and  I 
had  hope.  Why  she  married  me  that  early  Sep 
tember  evening,  I  do  not  know.  It  was  not  long 
before  we  both  found  out  our  mistake.  And  it 
was  too  late  then.  We  were  man  and  wife.  Don't 
suppose  I  blame  her — I  do  not.  I  have  no  cause 
of  complaint.  She  is  a  good  wife  to  me,  as  I 
have  tried  to  be  a  good  husband  to  her.  We  made 
a  mistake  in  marrying  each  other,  and  we  know  it 
—that's  all  !" 

Before   Laurence   Laughton    could   answer,   the 


VENETIAN  GLASS.  193 

door  opened  gently  and  Mrs.  Manning  entered 
the  room.  Laurence  rose  to  greet  his  friend's 
wife,  but  the  act  was  none  the  less  a  homage  to  her 
resplendent  beauty.  In  spite  of  the  worn  look  of 
her  face,  she  was  the  most  beautiful  woman  he  had 
ever  seen.  She  had  tawny  tigress  hair  and  hungry 
tigress  eyes.  The  eyes  indeed  were  fathomless  and 
indescribable,  and  their  fitful  glance  had  something 
uncanny  about  it.  The  hair  was  nearly  of  the  true 
Venetian  color,  and  she  had  the  true  Venetian 
sumptuousness  of  appearance,  simple  as  was  her 
attire.  She  seemed  as  though  she  had  just  risen 
from  the  couch  whereon  she  reclined  before  Titian 
or  Tintoretto,  and,  having  clothed  herself,  had 
walked  forth  in  this  nineteenth  century  and  these 
United  States.  She  was  a  strange  and  striking 
figure,  and  Laurence  found  it  impossible  to  analyze 
exactly  the  curious  and  weird  impression  she  pro 
duced  on  him.  Her  voice,  as  she  greeted  him, 
gave  him  a  peculiar  thrill  ;  and  when  he  shook 
hands  with  her  he  seemed  to  feel  himself  face  to 
face  with  some  strange  being  from  another  land 
and  another  century.  She  inspired  him  with  a 
supernatural  awe  he  was  not  wont  to  feel  in  the 
presence  of  woman.  He  had  a  dim  consciousness 
that  there  lingered  in  his  memory  the  glimmering 
image  of  some  woman  seen  somewhere,  he  knew 
not  when,  who  was  like  unto  the  woman  before 
him. 

As  she  took  her  seat  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  she 
gave  Laurence  Laughton  a  look  that  seemed  to  peer 


194  VENETIAN  GLASS. 

into  his  soul.  Laurence  felt  himself  quiver  under 
it.  It  was  a  look  to  make  a  man  fearful.  Then 
John  Manning,  who  had  moved  uneasily  as  his  wife 
entered,  said,  "  Laurence,  can  you  see  any  resem 
blance  in  my  wife  to  any  one  you  ever  saw  be 
fore  ?" 

Their  eyes  met  again,  and  again  Laurence  had  a 
vague  remembrance  as  though  he  and  she  had 
stood  face  to  face  before  in  some  earlier  existence. 
Then  his  wandering  recollections  took  shape,  and 
he  remembered  the  face  and  the  form  and  the 
haunting  mystery  of  the  expression,  and  he  felt 
for  a  moment  as  though  he  had  been  permitted  to 
peer  into  the  cabalistic  darkness  of  an  awful  mys 
tery,  though  he  failed  wholly  to  perceive  its  occult 
significance — if  significance  there  were  of  any  sort. 

"  I  think  I  do  remember,"  he  said  at  last.  "  It 
was  in  Venice — at  the  church  of  Santa  Maria 
Madalena — the  picture  there  that — " 

'  You  remember  aright  !"  interrupted  John 
Manning.  "  My  wife  is  the  living  image  of  the 
Venetian  woman  for  whose  beauty  Marco  Manin 
was  one  day  stabbed  in  the  back  with  a  glass 
stiletto  and  Giovanni  Manin  fled  from  the  place  of 
his  birth  and  never  saw  it  again.  It  is  idle  to 
fight  against  the  stars  in  their  courses.  We  met 
here  in  the  New  World,  she  and  I,  as  they  met  in 
the  Old  World  so  long  ago— and  the  end  is  the 
same.  It  was  to  be  ...  it  was  to  be  !" 

Laurence  Laughton  gave  a  swift  glance  at  his 
friend's  wife  to  see  what  effect  these  words  might 


VENETIAN  GLASS.  195 

have  on  her,  and  he  was  startled  to  detect  on  her 
face  the  same  enigmatic  smile  which  was  the  chief 
memory  he  had  retained  of  the  Venetian  picture. 
Truly,  the  likeness  between  the  painting  and  the 
wife  of  his  friend  was  marvellous  ;  and  Laurence 
tried  to  shake  off  a  morbid  wonder  whether  there 
might  be  any  obscure  and  inscrutable  survival  from 
one  generation  to  another  across  the  seas  and 
across  the  years. 

"If  you  remember  the  picture,"  said  John  Man 
ning,  "  perhaps  you  remember  the  quaint  goblet 
of  Venetian  glass  I  bought  the  same  day  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  said  Larry,  glad  to  get  Man 
ning  started  on  a  topic  of  talk  a  little  less  personal. 

"Perhaps  you  know  what  has  become  of  it?" 
asked  Manning. 

"  I  can  answer  '  of  course '  to  that,  too,"  replied 
Larry,  •'  because  I  have  it  here." 

"  Here?" 

"  Here — in  a  little  square  box,  in  the  hall," 
answered  Larry.  "  I  had  it  in  my  trunk,  you 
know,  when  we  took  passage  on  the  Vanderbilt  at 
Havre  that  May  morning.  I  forgot  to  give  it  to 
you  in  the  hurry  of  landing,  and  I  haven't  had  a 
chance  since.  This  is  the  first  time  I  have  seen 
you  for  nearly  three  years.  I  found  the  box  this 
morning,  and  I  thought  you  might  like  to  have  it 
again,  so  I  brought  it  up." 

John  Manning  rang  the  bell  at  the  head  of  his 
bed.  The  black  crone  answered  it,  and  soon  re 
turned  with  the  little  square  box.  Manning  im- 


196  VENETIAN  GLASS. 

patiently  broke  the  seals  and  cords  that  bound  its 
cover  and  began  eagerly  to  release  the  goblet 
from  the  cotton  and  tissue  paper  in  which  it  had 
been  carefully  swathed  and  bandaged.  Mrs.  Man 
ning,  though  her  moods  were  subtler  and  more  in 
tense,  showed  an  anxiety  to  see  the  goblet  quite  as 
feverish  as  her  husband's.  In  a  minute  the  last 
wrapping  was  twisted  off  and  the  full  beauty  of 
the  Venetian  glass  was  revealed  to  them.  As 
suredly  no  praise  was  too  loud  for  its  delicate  and 
exquisite  workmanship. 

"  Does  Mrs.  Manning  know  the  story  of  the  gob 
let  ?"  asked  Larry;  "has  she  been  told  of  the 
peculiar  virtue  ascribed  to  it  ?" 

"  She  has  too  great  a  fondness  for  the  horrible 
and  the  fantastic  not  to  have  heard  the  story  in  its 
smallest  details,"  said  Manning. 

Mrs.  Manning  had  taken  the  glass  in  Her  fine, 
thin  hands.  Evidently  it  and  its  mystic  legend 
had  a  morbid  fascination  for  her.  A  strange  light 
gleamed  in  her  wondrous  eyes,  and  Laughton  was 
startled  again  to  see  the  extraordinary  resemblance 
between  her  and  the  picture  they  had  looked  at  on 
the  day  the  goblet  had  been  bought. 

"  When  the  poison  was  poured  into  it,"  she  said 
at  last,  with  quick  and  restless  glances  at  the  two 
men,  "  the  glass  broke — then  the  tale  was  true  ?" 

"  It  was  a  coincidence  only,  I'm  afraid,''  said 
her  husband,  who  had  rallied  and  regained  strength 
under  the  unwonted  excitement. 

Just  then   the  old-fashioned   clock  on  the  stairs 


VENETIAN   GLASS.  197 

struck  five.  Mrs.  Manning  started  up,  holding 
the  goblet  in  her  hand. 

"  It  is  time  for  your  medicine,"  she  said. 

"  As  you  please,"  answered  her  husband  wearily, 
sinking  back  on  his  pillow.  "  My  wife  insists  on 
giving  me  every  drop  of  my  potions  with  her  own 
hands.  I  shall  not  trouble  her  much  longer,  and 
I  doubt  if  it  is  any  use  for  her  to  trouble  me  now." 

"  I  shall  give  you  everything  in  this  glass  after 
this,"  she  said. 

"  In  the  Venetian  glass  ?"  asked  Larry. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  turning  on  him  fiercely  ; 
"  why  not  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  the  doctor  is  trying  to  poison 
me  ?"  asked  her  husband. 

"  No,  I  do  not  think  the  doctor  is  trying  to 
poison  you,"  she  repeated  mechanically  as  she 
moved  toward  a  little  sideboard  in  a  corner  of  the 
room.  "  But  I  shall  give  you  all  your  medicines 
in  this  hereafter." 

She  stood  at  the  little  sideboard,  with  her  back 
toward  them,  and  she  mingled  the  contents  of 
various  phials  in  the  Venetian  goblet.  Then  she 
turned  to  cross  the  room  to  her  husband.  As  she 
walked  with  the  glass  in  her  hand  there  was  a  rift 
in  the  clouds  high  over  the  other  side  of  the 
river,  and  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  thrust  them 
selves  through  the  window  and  lighted  up  the 
glory  of  her  hair  and  showed  the  strange  gleam  in 
her  staring  eyes.  Another  step,  and  the  red  rays 
fell  on  the  Venetian  glass,  and  it  burned  and 


198  VENETIAN  GLASS. 

glowed,  and  the  green  serpents  twined  about  its 
ruby  stem  seemed  to  twist  and  crawl  with  malig 
nant  life,  while  their  scorching  eyes  shot  fire. 
Another  step,  and  she  stood  by  the  bedside.  As 
John  Manning  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  gob 
let,  a  tremor  passed  through  her,  her  fingers 
clinched  the  fragile  stem,  and  the  glass  fell  on  the 
floor  and  was  shattered  to  shivers  as  its  fellow 
had  been  shattered  three  centuries  ago  and  more. 
She  still  stared  steadily  before  her  ;  then  her  lips 
parted,  and  she  said,  "  The  glass  broke — the  glass 
broke — then  the  tale  is  true  !"  And  with  one 
hysteric  shriek  she  fell  forward  amid  the  frag 
ments  of  the  Venetian  goblet,  unconscious  there 
after  of  all  things. 


Stories  by 
American  Authors 


MESSRS.  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS  have  in  hand  a 
publication  of  unusual  importance  and  interest,  in  the  volumes 
of  "  Stories  by  American  Authors,"  of  which  they  have  just 
begun  the  issue. 

The  books  carry  their  sufficient  explanation  in  their  brief 
title.  They  are  collections  of  the  more  noteworthy  short 
stories  contributed  by  American  writers  during  the  last 
twenty-five  years — and  especially  during  the  last  ten — either 
to  periodicals  or  publications  now  for  some  reason  not  easily 
accessible. 

It  is  surprising  that  such  a  collection  has  not  been  at 
tempted  earlier,  in  view  of  the  extraordinarily  large  propor 
tion  of  strong  work  in  American  fiction  which  has  been  cast 
in  the  form  of  the  short  story. 

If  the  publishers  of  the  present  collection  are  right,  it  will 
not  only  show  the  remarkably  large  number  of  contemporary 
American  authors  who  have  won  general  acknowledgment 
of  their  excellence  in  this  field,  but  will  surprise  most  readers 
by  the  number  of  capital  and  striking  stories  by  less  frequent 
writers,  which  are  scattered  through  our  recent  periodical 
literature. 

In  England,  in  the  well-known  "  Tales  from  Blackwood," 
the  experiment  was  tried  of  publishing  such  stories  taken  from 
a  single  magazine  within  a  limited  time.  But  the  noticeable 
feature  of  the  present  volumes  will  be  seen  to  be  the  extent 
of  the  field  from  which  they  draw,  and  their  fully  representa 
tive  character. 


CONTENTS  OF  PREVIOUS  VOLUMES. 

First  Volume. 

WHO   WAS    SHE  ? By  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

THE  DOCUMENTS  IN  THE  CASE.  |  B^  BRA^R  g1^^5  and 
ONE  OF  THE  THIRTY  PIECES.  -  -  -  By  W.  H.  BISHOP. 
BALACCHI  BROTHERS.  -  -  -  By  REBECCA  HARDING  DAVIS. 
AN  OPERATION  IN  MONEY.  -  -  -  By  ALBERT  WEBSTER. 

Second  Volume. 

THE  TRANSFERRED  GHOST.  -  -  By  FRANK  R.  STOCKTOX. 
MRS.  KNOLLYS.  -  -  By  J.  S.  OF  DALE,  author  of  "  Guerndale." 
A  MARTYR  TO  SCIENCE.  -  -  By  M.  PUTNAM  JACOBI,  M.D. 

A    DINNER-PARTY By  JOHN  EDDY. 

THE  MOUNT  OF  SORROW.  -  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 
SISTER  SILVIA.  ------  By  MARY  AGNES  TINCKER. 


Handsomely  Bound  in  Cloth,  i6mo,  about 
200  Pages  each. 

PRICE    PKR   VOLUME,   E>O    CTS. 


%*  For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of 
price  by 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS, 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


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